BY  SARAH  ELIZABETH  HOWARD 


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PEN  PICTURES 
of  the  PLAINS 

BY 

SARAH    ELIZABETH    HOWARD 


DENVER 

THE  REED   PUBLISHING   COMPANY 
1902 


COPYRIGHTED   IQ02 
BY    SARAH    ELIZABETH    HOWARD 


TO  THOSE  WHO  LEFT  LOVED  HOMES  AND 
FRIENDS  IN  SETTLED  PORTIONS  OF  OUR 
LAND,  TO  WIN  NEW  HOMES  AND  FRIENDS 
UPON  "THE  GREAT  AMERICAN  DESERT/' 
THIS  LITTLE  BOOK  IS  DEDICATED  BY 
THE  AUTHOR. 


9154:24 


THANKS  ARE  DUE  TO  "GOOD  HOUSEKEEPING" 
AND  "SUNSHINE"  FOR  COURTESIES  EXTEND 
ED;  ALSO  FOR  DATA  GATHERED  FROM  "THE 
UTE  WAR." 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

A  PRAIRIE  IDYL 

Introduction  1 1 

The  River 12 

The  Movers 13 

Dreams    14 

The  New  House 18 

A  Prairie  Scene 20 

The  Home  Making 21 

The  Wind  Storm 24 

A    Visitor 25 

The  Dry,  Dry  Earth 36 

Rattlesnakes  37 

Irrigation  38 

The  Colony  Fence 42 

The   Colony 42 

Mid-Summer 46 

Lost  49 

The  Fearful  Night 52 

Grief's  Load 54 

The  Agency 57 

The  Indians 60 

The  Massacre 64 

The  Captives 66 

Prairie  Rovers 78 

The  Bronco  Breakers 79 

Wild  Horses 82 

Wild  Horse  Jerry's  Story 84 

The  Blizzard 87 

The  Round-  Up 99 

In  Later  Times 103 


THE  YUCCA 109 

PRAIRIE  DOG  TOWN no 

THE  MOUNTAIN  STREAM 112 

A  MAY-TIME  PICTURE 113 

SONGS  FOR  THE  MONTHS 117 

LONG'S    PEAK 123 

A  SUNSET  SCENE 124 

A  WINTER  MORNING 125 

VICTORY   126 

THE  MOUNTAINS  SPEAK  TO  ME 127 

TWILIGHT  .  128 


I LLU  STRA TI ON  S 


ON  THE  CACHE  LA  POUDRE Frontispiece 

Photo    by   Mrs.    M.    A.    Bunker,    Greeley 

CRYSTAL  SPRAY , . .     16 

AMONG  THE  FARMS 24 

Photo    by   F.    E.    Baker,    Greeley 

THE  SNOWY   RANGE 32 

Photo   by   F.   E.   Baker 

THE  MEEKER  HOME 40 

Photo   by   Mrs.   M.   A.   Bunker 

PRAIRIE  ROVERS 48 

Photo   by  Mrs.   M.   A.   Bunker 

NATHAN  C.  MEEKER 56 

Miss  JOSEPHINE  MEEKER 64 

OURAY  AND  CHIPETA 72 

A  BUCKING   BRONCO 80 

Photo    by    W.    G.    Walker,    Cheyenne 

PUBLIC  SCHOOL  BUILDINGS 88 

Photo   by   F.    E.    Baker 

CHASING  A  STEER 96 

Photo   by    W.    G.    Walker 

MRS.  ARVILLA  D.  MEEKER 104 

Photo   by   E.    S.   Nettlelon 


DIVERTING  THE  WATER  FROM  THE  NORTH  POUDRE.  ...   112 
SNOW  SCENE  IN  MAY 120 

Photo    by   F.    E.    Baker 

DEEP  IN  THE  HEART  OF  ROCKY  MOUNTAIN  WILDS.  . .   126 

Photo    by   Smith-Hassell   Co.,   Denver 


PEN    PICTURES 
OF     THE     PLAINS 


12  P  «£  N     PTCTURES     OF      THE     PLAINS 

Of  dull,  haid  lines  that  never  rise  above 
The  commonplace. 

THE     RIVER 

A  still  bright  day  in  March. 
The  tiresome,  noisy  wind  forgets  to  blow. 
The  sun,  from  out  a  sky  of  cloudless  blue, 
Pours   Summer's   warmth  upon  the  prairies, 

bare, 
And  brown,  and  dusty.     Hushed  and  lifeless, 

all 
The  scene.     Gnarled  trees  outline  the  river's 

course, 
And    stretch  their  naked    branches  high,   as 

though 

Appealing  to  the  smiling  Heavens,  for  gift 
Of  verdure's  grace,  to  hide  their  rugged  forms. 

The  Cache  la  Poudre,  now  a  shrunken  stream, 
Glides  peacefully  along,  and  murmurs  low, 
As  placidly  it  winds  through  banks  deep  cut 
By  torrents  rushing  over  sandy  soil, 


APRAIRIEIDYL  13 

Or  broadens  out,  to  lave  a  pebbly  shore. 
The  wild  impetuosity  is  gone, 
That  freed  it  from  its  mountain  home,  and  sent 
It  plunging,  foaming  down,  exultant,  wild, 
Down,  down,  past  boulders  broad,  that  block 

and  fret, 

But  cannot  hold ;  down,  down,  the  sides  of  hills 
Rock-faced,  through  wooded  vales,  and  on,  and 

on, 

To  gain  the  restful  quiet  of  the  plains, 
Where  it  may  almost  pause  at  times,  to  note 
The  beauty  of  the  azure  sky,  the  sun's 
Glad  light,  the  fleeting  clouds,  the  moon's  mild 

beams, 

The  stars  that  gem  the  midnight  sky,  and  in 
Its  placid  waters  mirror  them,  in  grand 
And  lovely  pictures,  framed  by  shadowy  trees. 

THE    MOVERS 

Along  the  road,  that  follows  near  the  course 
The  river  takes,  or  climbs  the  bluff  to  find 
A  shorter  path,  appears  a  wagon,  wide 


14  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

And    long,  and  loaded    well  with    household 

goods ; 

Two  horses,  broad  of  back  and  heavy  limbed, 
The  wagon  draw.    A  nest,  of  mattresses 
And  pillows  piled,  well  planned  for  when  the 

load 

Was  built,  make  safe  and  full  of  ease  the  ride 
For  those  who  snuggle  there, — a  laughing  babe, 
A  prattling  girl,  a  manly  boy,  and  one 
Who  watches  o'er,  as  mothers  do,  the  three 
To  her  so  dear ;  and  he,  who  holds  above 
The  horses  guiding  lines,  and  cheers  them  on 
In  tones  they  understand, — his  look  of  proud 
Content,  his  interest  in  all,  proclaim 
His  ownership — love-granted — of  the  group. 

DREAMS 

The  driver  and  his  team,  have  traveled  oft, 
The  road  so  long  and  wearisome ;  but  all 
The  way  is  new  to  her,  who  thinks  to  see 
At  every  turn,  or  from  each  hill  top  gained, 
The  lone,  new  house,  that  is  to  be  her  home. 


APRAIRIEIDYL  15 

She  backward  looks.    There  lies  the  little  town 
Whose  buildings,  in  the  distance  seem  like  toys 
Upon  a  mammoth  table  spread;  and  there 
She  fancies  that  she  still  can  see  the  one 
That  was  her  home,  the  while  the  house  upon 
The  plains  was  being  built. 

Again  she  looks 

Around.     Upon  the  right,  the  left,  above, 
Below,  there  meets  her  unaccustomed  sight, 
The  same  monotony  of  earth  and  sky. 
The  cradled  motion,  and  the  drowsy  air, 
Have  caused  the  little  ones  to  sleep. 
The  weary  mother  veils  her  eyes  to  shield 
Them  from  the  glaring  light,  and  gently,  sleep 
From  her  too,  wins  all  consciousness  of  things 
At  hand.     The  prairie  sights  and  sounds,  no 

more 

She  sees,  or  hears.    And  yet  the  active  brain 
Sleeps  not;  for  dreaming,  she  beholds  again 
What  in  her  waking  hours  she  scarce  dares  trust 
Herself  to  think  about ; — a  spot  most  loved, 
Most  dear, — her  childhood's  home — unmindful 

that 


l6  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

The  half  of  one  vast  continent  is  stretched 
Between  herself  and  it.  She  sees  the  low, 
Wide  spreading  house,  whose  massive  beams, 

a  hand, — 

Her  father's  hand — hewed  long  ago  from  oaks 
He  felled  to  clear  a  spot  where  it  might  stand. 
She  plays  again,  beneath  the  giant  trees 
That  like  loved  sentinels,  were  left  to  guard 
The  door ;  whose  sheltering  branches  interlaced, 
And  made  a  royal  canopy  above 
The  play-ground   of  her   youth ;   and    whose 

broad  leaves 

The  sunlight  and  the  moonlight  made  to  dance 
In  shadows  on  her  chamber  floor.     She  sees 
The  windows,  over  which  the  roses  climb ; 
The  garden  walk,  the  flowers  her  mother  loved 
And  tended.    Then  she  sees  that  other  home, — 
The  one  she  entered  when  a  bride,  and  where 
Her  little  children  came  to  her,  and  made 
A  happy  life  more  blest  and  brighter  still. 
More  plainly  than  aught  else  she  sees,  or  seems 
To  see,  the  growing  things;  the  grass    that 

clothes 
With  richest  green,  the  little  eminence 


CRYSTAL   SPRAY. 

"Shall  coax  his  treasures  down  the  rocky  sides 
In    dancing   rivulets."  — Page   22. 


.  .      .    .          .     ...» 

::    v  :V  "i *'  .: 


APRAIRIEIDYL  17 

Where  stands  the  low,  old-fashioned  house, — 

the  old 

Red  house.    The  daisies  nod,  as  if  to  say, 
"Come,  let  us  tell  your  fortune,  as  of  yore." 
The  red,  round  blossoms  of  the  clover,  load 
The  air  with  fragrance,  well  remembered;  and 
The  rich  deep-colored  buttercups  sway  back 
And  forth  upon  their  slender  stems,  and  tempt 
Her  once  again  to  pluck  their  yellow  blooms, 
And  try  the  old-time  test,  that  tells  "Who  loves 
The  butter."    More  than  all  the  rest,  the  trees 
A  welcome  lend.     The  pines  that  shade  the 

drive 

Upon  the  east,  a  gentle  murmur,  soft 
And  low,  send  forth.     The  elms  and  maples 

from 

The  western  side,  their  branches  wave,  until 
Each  blithesome  leaf  is  dancing  in  the  air. 
The  spire-like  firs,  that  guard  on  either  hand 
The  door,  in  sighing  whispers,  welcome  her, 
Whose  gentle  word  forbade  the  cruel  axe 
To  lay  their  beauty  low.     Above  the  door, 
The  jessamine  hangs  drooping,  as  of  old. 
Around  the  windows  twine — a  living  frame — 


l8  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

The  woodbine,  free  to  thrust  its  tendrils  in 
Each  weather-beaten  crack,  and  hold  its  place 
With   sturdy   will.      With   joy,   surprise,    she 

notes 

The  trumpet  vine,  her  hand  had  planted ;  what 
A  growth !    It  spreads  its  glossy  leaves  upon 
The*  roof,   and  clustered  blossoms    crown    it 

there ; 
Her   hand   she  stretches   forth    to  pluck  one 

flower, — 

So  little  mindful  are  we  in  our  dreams 
Of  time  and  space — and  speedily,  the  scene 
Is  changed.    The  horses  by  the  driver  stopped, 
Upon  the  summit  stand  of  rising  ground, 
There  halted  that  the  better  she  may  view 
What  lies  before.     The  ceasing  motion  wakes 
The  sleeper,  speeds  the  dream. 

THE    NEW    HOUSE 

"Look,  Margaret!" 

Her  husband's  voice  she  hears ;  across  her  eyes 
She  lightly  draws  a  hand  to  hide  the  tears, — 


APRAIRIEIDYL  IQ 

The  smarting,  blinding  tears,  that  sprang  unhid 
When  she    awoke,  and    knew    that    she    had 

dreamed. 

For  Roland  must  not  know, — he  must  not  guess 
How  much  she  misses  trees,  and  flowers,  and 

grass,— 

For  seldom  does  the  prairie  wear  a  robe 
Of  green,  as  bright,  as  lovely,  as  the  fields 
She  used  to  roam, — nor  must  he  know  how 

much 

She  misses  and  desires  to  see  the  dear, 
Familiar  faces.  Now  he  speaks  again : 
"Look,  Margaret!  There  stands  the  house — 

the  house 
Where  my  dear  wife  shall  make  for  me,  a 

home." 

Across  the  prairie,  scarce  a  mile  away, 
The  new,  unfinished  house  stood,  all  alone. 
Much  taller  than  it  really  was,  it  looked, 
Because  no  other  objects  clustered  near, — 
No  trees,  no  buildings,  only,  half  the  way 
Between  the  wagon  and  the  house,  there  stood 
A  ranchman's  settlement.     A  little  house, 


20  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

A  barn  and  sheds,  corrals,  and  ditches  plowed, 
Told  that  it  must  have  been  a  home,  a  year 
At  least.    Here  lived  a  German  family, — 
Newcomers  there — but  still  old  settlers  in 
The  West,  since    first  the    prairie    schooners 

trailed 

At  snail-like  pace — by  goaded  oxen  drawn — 
Across  the  dreary,  desert  sea  of  sand. 

A     PRAIRIE    SCENE 

A  pretty  portion  of  the  scene  lay  just 
Below.    A  basin  broad  and  deep,  worn  in 
The  prairie's  undulating  levelness 
By  rushing  waters  in  the  ages  past ; 
Down  through  its  center,  sang  a  silvery  stream, 
Meandering  from  right  to  left ;  the  grass 
Sprang  up  on  either  side,  and  by  its  bright, 
Delightful  green,  declared  the  distance  that 
Its  searching  roots  had  quenched  their  burning 

thirst 

As  the  cool  waters  rippled  by.    Adown 
A  steep  decline,  across  the  basin's  floor, 


APRAIRIEIDYL  21 

Now  hiding  at  the  little  ford,  its  path 
As  winding  as  the  streamlet's  way,  the  road 
Gleamed  white,  until  it  disappeared  upon 
The  farther  bluff. 

The  beauty  of  the  scene 
A  glance  took  in, — its  loneliness  as  well. 
The  western  sun  now  flooded  all  with  rays 
Whose  softened  yellow  light,  betokened  that 
The  day  was  nearly  spent,  and  urged  the  need 
Of  haste.    Again  they  journeyed  on ;  and  all 
The  way  was  filled  with  plans,  that  when  ma 
tured, 

Should  make  the  prairie  home  a  lovely  place, — 
A  spot  to  rest  the  eye  upon, — a  real 
Oasis  in  the  desert. 

THE    HOME    MAKING 

Days  have  passed ; 

The  making  of  the  home  goes  slowly  on; 
From  chaos,  order  steadily  evolves; 
And  yet,  so  incomplete  the  state  of  things, 
Within,   without,   that   strength   and  patience 
scarce 


22  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

Can  bear  the  call  incessant,  for  the  work 
Of  hands,  that  falls  upon  so  few.    How  great 
The  task  to  make  a  home,  when  every  brick 
And  stick,  and  stone,  that  goes  to  build  a  house, 
Must  be  transported  miles  and  miles,  by  man 
And  beast.    Where  deep  are  hid  the  springs  that 

must 
Be  found,  and  forced  to  yield  their  sparkling 

gift 

Of  water,  clear  and  cool.     Where  not  a  grain 
Of  wheat  bestows  its  bearded  wealth,  till  from 
The  river  to  the  spot  where  it  must  grow 
A  channel  has  been  made  to  carry  there 
The  snow  and  ice  that  Winter  stored  within 
The     mountain  fastnesses,    when     the    warm 

breath 

Of  May  and  June,  unloosing  his  cold  clasp, 
Shall  coax  his  treasures  down  the  rocky  sides 
In  dancing  rivulets.    Where  e'en  the  soil, — 
The  cacti-guarded  soil, — sun-baked  and  hard, 
Forbids  the  sharpened  plow  to  turn  its  sod, 
Until  its  surface  has  received  a  flood,— 
Descended  from  the  clouds,  or  lacking  that, 
A  flood  drawn  from  the  river's  tide. 


APRAIRIEIDYL  23 

But  still, 

Each  day  some  comfort  adds.     Each  day  be 
holds 

Some  task  begun,  or  carried  forward.     Time 
And  thought,  and  strength  are  given.     In  re 
turn 

There  comes  a  welcome  sense  of  homelikeness ; 
Homelike,  and  yet  not  home.  What  wonder 

that 

With  eyes  tear-blinded,  Margaret  should  ask 
Herself,  "Can  this  bare  country  ever  make 
A  home  for  me?    For  me,  who  loved  so  well 
The  stately  oaks  about  my  childhood's  home, 
The  stretch  of  pines  where  I  might  wander 

hours, 

And  hours,  delighted  with  their  fragrance,  and 
Their  gentle  murmurings,  and  find  enough 
To  hold  me  spellbound,  in  the  tiny  leaves 
That  trailed  across  the  dim  aisles  at  their  feet, — 
A  tracery  of  green,  against  the  soft, 
Brown  carpet,  made  of  fallen  needles  ?    There, 
Low  hills  and  vales  o'ergrown  with  trees  that 

held 

Aloft,  in  Spring,  their  tasseled,  petaled  flowers, 
And  waved  in  Summer,  dainty  robes  of  green; 
Where  in  the  Autumn,  choicest  tints  of  gold 


24  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

And  scarlet,  hid  the  bounteous  harvest  spread, 
Of  nuts  and  fruits,  and  made  the  landscape 

rich 
With  pictures,  words  may  not  portray.     And 

here, 

No  tree  in  sight,  save  where  the  cottonwoods 
Upon  the  river's  bank — a  mile  away, — 
Find  water  so  that  they  can  thrive  and  grow; 
No  sheltered  nooks  where  hide  surprises  rich 
With  Flora's    gifts.     Naught,    but    the    sun- 
browned  plains, 
Wind-swept  and  desolate.    Can  this  be  home  ?" 

THE     WIND    STORM 

The  moisture  of  early  spring  has  made 
It  possible  to  plow  the  ground  and  seed 
It ;  but  for  weeks  no  rain  has  fallen  on 
The  thirsty,  sun-dried  land.   The  stubborn  soil 
Resists  the  plow.    The  seeds  refuse  to  grow. 
For  lack  of  Nature's  tears,  their  hearts  will  not 
With  sympathy  enlarge,  and  opening,  send 
Their  tender  sprouts  to  bless  the  land. 

For  days 

The  clouds  have  floated   from  the  mountain 
tops 


APRAIRIEIDYL  25 

And  spread  upon  the  sky,  their  folds,  so  full 
Of  promise;  then  retaining  all  their  wealth 
Of  rain-drops,  coveted  and  needed,  furled 
Their  banners  dark,  and  sailed  from  sight. 

The  wind 

Now  boisterous  and  rioting,  lifts  from 
The  earth,  a  cloud  of  dust,  and  whirling  sticks, 
And  straws ;  it  pelts  with  gravel  stones  that  cut 
Like  sleet,  the  luckless  one,  unsheltered  from 
Its  wrath.     From  out  the  sandy  soil  it  tears 
The  wheat,  that  early  rains  have  sprouted ;  veils 
The  nearer  objects  with  its  stolen  cloud, 
And  shrieks  and  howls,  like  some  mad  spirit, 

free 
To  do  its  worst. 

A     VISITOR 

Now  Margaret,  on  such 
A  morn,  half  terrified,  alone,  except 
The  fellowship  of  her  own  little  ones, 
Heard  open  wide,  as  if  wind  flung,  a  door, 
And  hastening  there  to  close  it  'gainst  the  blast, 
Upon  her  threshold  met,  all  scant  of  breath, 
And  panting  from  her  battle  with  the  storm, 
Her  German  neighbor  woman,  knitting  work 


26  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

In  hand,  and  joyed  to  see  her  there, — her  words 
Of  welcome  feebly  told  how  much. 

"I  saw/' 

The  neighbor  said, — her  accent  scarce  betrayed 
Her  foreign  birth, — "your  husband  on  his  way 
To  town ;  and  when  the  wind  began  to  blow, 
I  knew  right  well  how  dreary  it  must  seem 
To  you;  and  so  I  came  to  help  you  keep 
Your  courage  up;  if  you  are  not  afraid, 
You're  braver  far,  than  I,  when  first  I  saw 
The  air  so  filled  with  sweepings  of  the  earth." 
"Have  you  then  lost  all  fear?" 

"The  noisy  wind 

It  wearies  me ;  it  wears  my  patience  out ; 
It  sifts  the  dust  through  every  crevice  in 
The  house ;  and  yet,  it  seldom  gives  much  cause 
For  fear;  the  mountains  are  so  near  to  us, 
We  think  they  break  its  force." 

"Is  this  dry  spring 
Unusual,  or  have  you  seen  the  like 
Before?" 

"Aye,  many  times ;  if  you  had  had 
Your  ditches  made  and  turned  the  water  on 
The  sod  before  't  was  plowed,  then  would  your 

seeds 
Have  started.    One  cannot  do  all  things  in 


APRAIRIEIDYL  27 

A  minute.    Well  it  was  for  you,  the  soil 
Was  wet  enough  to  ploiv.     Now,  your  good 

man 

Will  furrow  out  the  corn,  and  irrigate 
Between  the  rows,  spread  gentle  floods  upon 
Alfalfa  sown,  and  wheat,  and  you  shall  see 
How  water  makes  the  green  oases  in 
The  desert." 

"How   long  has   this   bare  country  been 
Your  home?" 

"Why,  long  enough  to  make  a  home 
And  lose  it.    Long  enough  to  start  anew 
With  younger  people,  like  yourself.     I  left 
My  childhood's  home,  where  high  the  Alps  up 
lift 
Their  snow-crowned  heads,  a  bride;  and  now 

I  count 

My  children's  children,  kiss  their  rosy  cheeks 
And  feel  their  clinging  arms  around  my  neck." 
"Please  tell  me,  friend,  what  made  you  choose 

this  land 

To  be  your  own?    I  question,  for  I  love 
To  hear  another's  voice;  'tis  music  in 
My  loneliness.     And  then  I  fain  would  know 
How  other  women  lived,  who  knew  in  truth 
The  hardships  of  the  pioneer." 


28  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

"Because 

We  speak  that  language,  people  say  that  we 
Are  Germans ;  just  as  truly  might  they  call 
Us  French.  We  came  from  Switzerland.  The 

love 

Of  liberty  is  in  our  veins,  and  that 
Is  why  we  made  America  our  choice. 
We  thought  to  seek  the  western  coast  and  make 
Our  fortune  in  its  mines  of  gold ;  but  when 
The  train  of  emigrants  was  formed,  and  well 
Upon  the  way,  we  heard  that  dread  disease 
Was  raging  there.    Our  oxen  crippled  with 
The  constant  travel.     Fertile  lands  around 
Us,  tempted  us  to  stay.    We  dropped  behind. 
Our  fellow  travelers  journeyed  on,  and  we 
Were  left  alone,  to  make  as  best  we  could 
A  living  in  Missouri's  wilds.     Four  walls 
Of  logs,  without  a  floor  or  roof,  was  all 
The  shelter  that  I  had  for  months.    'Twas  there 
My  first  born   saw  the  light.     We   gathered 

'round 

Us,  in  the  years  we  settled  there,  a  few 
Of  life's  necessities,  but  little  of 
Its  comforts.     Sickness  laid  its  hold  upon 
My  husband.    Strength  for  work,  no  longer  did 


APRAIRIEIDYL  2Q 

He  have.    There  seemed  but  one  thing  left  for 

us,— 

To  seek  for  health  amid  new  scenes.    We  then 
Had  heard  a  little  of  the  healing  power 
Of  Colorado's  air,  so  light  and  dry; 
And  so  we  rounded  up  our  little  herd, 
And  once  again  a  prairie  schooner  was 
Our  home, — our  home  on  wheels.    We  traveled 

weeks 

And  months,  until  we  saw,  far  in  the  west, 
The  mountain  tops,  snow  white,  against  the 

sky; 

And  still,  another  day ;  and  then  at  night 
We  camped  beside  the  Platte;  and  there  with 

grass 

And  water  for  our  stock,  again  we  tried 
To  make  a  home." 

"Were  you  so  fortunate 
As  I  ?    Had  you  a  neighbor  ?" 

"On  the  creek 

Were  ranches  where  white  settlers  lived,  too  far 
Away  to  be  much  help  or  company. 
I  had  some  visitors  you  might  not  care 
To  know.     The  Indians  often  passed  our  way 
And  seldom  failed  to  call." 


3O  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

"And  were  you  not 
Afraid  of  them?" 

"Sometimes ;  but  then,  I  knew 
Too  much  to  let  them  find  it  out ;  I  learned 
To  raise  my  voice  and  scold  until  they  thought 
I  was  the  bravest  woman  on  the  creek. 
You    know  we    had    no    railroads    then;    we 

bought 

Supplies  in  Denver ;  sold  our  produce  there ; 
It  took  a  week  to  make  the  trip;  the  men 
From  all  the  ranches  went  together.     Once, 
When  they  were  gone,  a  band  of  red  men  passed 
Our  way,  and  knowing  that  the  women  were 
Alone,  they  frightened  and  annoyed  us  much. 
They  were  Arapahoes,  returning  to 
Their  camp  upon  Crow  Creek.     I  knew  their 

tribe 

Because  they  told  me — pointed  at  themselves 
And  proudly  said,  "Me  Rapho!"    Groups  of 

two 

And  three  my  callers  were ;  I  dared 
Not  feed  them ;  if  I  did,  I  knew  they  would 
Return,  not  once,  but  many  times.    Outside 
The  house  I  hid  all  eatables,  except 
A  loaf  of  bread,  to  give  my  children  should 
The  red  men  stay  too  long ;  and  that  I  placed 


APRAIRIEIDYL  31 

Among  our  clothing  in  a  trunk.     When  they 
Insisted  on  a  search  for  food, — then  wide 
I  opened  empty  closets,  boxes,  jars, 
With  hands  not  gentle,  saying  with  a  voice 
Made  loud  and  scolding,  "See !  there's  nothing 

here, 

Or  here!  or  here!  So  brave  and  unconcerned 
Was  I,  they  little  guessed  how  much  with  fear 
I  trembled :  this  was  not  what  they  wished 

to  hear, 

And  one  old  dirty  brave  held  up  his  hands, — 
With  fingers  spreading  wide, — the  way  they 

count 

By  tens,  and  tens,  and  said,  "Heap  Injun,  come 
And  kill  white  squaw ;"  and  then  I  showed  no 

sign 

Of  fear ;  in  truth  I  was  not  much  afraid : 
I  knew  that  when  they  meant  to  kill,  they  came 
At  just  before  the  break  of  day,  and  then 
They  did  not  parley.     Once,   three  red  men 

came, 
And  shouted,   "Sleepee  wigwam!"     "No!"  I 

said, 
"You  can't  sleep  here!     Your  wigwam  is  on 

Crow- 
Go  there !"    I  held  the  door  fast  shut,  and  was 


32  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

So  firm,  they  laughed  and  went  away.     I  had 
Less  trouble  than  the  other  women  did 
With  them.     That  proved  'twas  wiser  not  to 

yield 
To  their  demands." 

"How  were  they  dressed?" 
"They  wore 

In  winter,  robes  of  buffalo;  and  in 
The  summer,  blankets;  not  much  else;  but  if 
A  brave  should  wear  a  hat,  he  usually 
Wore  two,  placed  one  above  the  other.    One, 
He  must  have  been  a  chief,  wore  feathers  in 
His  hair,  and  crossed  his  breast  and  wound  his 

waist 

With  strings  of  silver  dollars,  flattened  out, 
And  lapped  upon  each  other,  till  they  must 
Have  been  a  heavy  weight  to  bear.    We  feared 
Them  really,  when  the  civil  war  broke  out ; 
Bad  men — deserters  and  the  like, — then  put 
Them  up  to  doing  harm.    'Twas  then  the  Plum 
Creek  massacre  occurred,  and  no  one  knew 
But  what  an  Indian  was  behind  each  knoll 
To  shoot  him  down.     It  made  my  blood  run 

cold 

The  danger  we  were  in ;  and  when  we  had 
To  stay  alone, — the  children  and  myself, — 


APRAIRIEIDYL  33 

We  dared  not  sleep  beneath  our  roof,  for  fear 
It  might  be  burned  above  our  heads.    I  stole 
Out  after  dark  and  made  a  place  for  them 
To  sleep  among  the  weeds  and  willows  by 
The  river;  often  dared  not  leave  them  there 
One  night,  but  took  them  up  and  carried  them 
Asleep,  to  other  places, — sometimes  moved 
Them  more  than  once  before  the  night  was 

gone. 

I  early  taught  them  all  to  know  and  write 
Their  names,  that  it  might  help  us  find  them, 

should 
The  red  men  steal  them  from  us." 

"Trials  that 

I  thought  were  mine,  fade  into  nothingness 
Beside  the  hardships  it  has  been  your  lot 
To  bear,"  said  Margaret. 

"In  every  life 

Hard  places  come,  and  mine  has  had  its  share. 
You  have  not  told  me  yet,  how  well  you  like 
Your  house,  and  if  it  seems  like  home  to  you." 

"Since  living  here  the  sun  has  risen  in 
The  east,"  said  Margaret;  "in  that  it  seems 
Like  home ;  before,  I  was  so  lost  and  turned 
About,  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  the  sun  rose  in 


34  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

The   north;   but   when   the   house  was   being 

built, — 

The  house  I  had  not  seen  until  'twas  fit 
To  shelter  us,  my  husband  said  such  words 
As  these,  'The  kitchen  faces  to  the  east, 
And  there  you'll  have  the  morning  sun.'    Or 

these, 

'The  view  is  lovely  from  the  sitting-room; 
The    southern     windows    look     upon     Pike's 

Peak— 

You'll  see  it  when  the  sun  is  low, — and  all 
The  western  sky  is  cut  in  scallops  by 
The  snow-crowned  mountain  peaks  against  its 

blue.' 

So  was  I  righted  as  to  compass  points. 
And  then,  I  have  my  loved  ones  here;  for  me, 
Not  Heaven  itself,  could  be  a  home,  were  they 
Not  there.     If  one  who  had  authority, 
Should  say  to  me,  'To-day  go  back  and  live 
Among  the  scenes  you  love  so  well/  I  would 
Not  heed  the  words,  because  I  am  so  glad 
To  see  my  husband  gaining  health.    To  have 
Him  know  the    joy    of    breathing    full,   free 

breaths — 

The  gift  that  Colorado's  wondrous  air 
Bestows  upon  those  sufferers  who  seek 


APRAIRIEIDYL  35 

Her  plains  and  mountains,  while  there  yet  is 

hope 

For  them.    And  yet,  in  spite  of  all,  there  comes 
At  times,  a  longing  for  the  dear  old  home, 
The  dear,  dear  faces,  till  it  makes  me  sad, 
And  easily  the  tears  would  come,  but  that 
I  hold  them  back. 

My  husband?    Yes,  he  liked 
Here  from  the  first;  he  says  there's  something 

in 

The  novelty  and  freedom  of  this  life, 
That  suits  him  well.     But  I  imagine  that 
Its  hardships  wear  upon  the  women  more 
Than  on  the  men.    The  loneliness,  and  lack 
Of  comforts  that  the  settler  must  endure, — 
They  feel  more  deeply.     Care  of  children  and 
Of  home,  so  often  shuts  them  in  from  change 
They  need  and  would  enjoy." 

With  now  and  then 
A  pause  to  listen  to  the  howling  wind, 
The  neighbors  chatted  on ;  and  in  the  skilled 
Accustomed  hands  the  knitting  grew  apace ; 
While  Margaret  found  work  to  busy  her 
In  caring  for  her  house  and  little  ones. 
With  wonder  eyes,  young  Earl  had  listened  to 
The  tales  of  frontier  life;  but  longing  for 


36  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

The  wind  to  cease  that  he  might  ride  upon 
His  pony's  back,  he  took  his  seat  where  he 
Could  watch  the  storm,  and  was  the  first  to  see 
The  dust  clouds  lessen,  note  the  welcome  lulls, 
And  know  the  storm  would  soon  be  o'er.    The 

veil 

Of  dust  laid  low,  the  sun  shines  forth  upon 
The  wind-swept  land.     The  piles  of  rubbish 

found 

In  sheltered  corners,  tell  how  thoroughly 
The  sweeping  has  been  done.    The  absent  one, 
Wind-tossed  and  weary,  now  returns.  The  kind 
And    thoughtful    neighbor    seeks    her    home. 

Night  falls 
Upon  a  restful  quiet,  sweet  as  sleep. 

THE    DRY,    DRY    EARTH 

The  days  are  warm,  excepting  when  the  sun, 
Veiled  by  the  passing  clouds,  is  lost  to  sight; 
Or  when  it  sinks  behind  the  mountain  tops 
To  gladden  other  lands,  and  leaves  the  night 
To     reign.      Oft,    then     a    sudden     coolness 

comes, — 
The  breath  from  snow-bemantled,  frigid  peaks. 


A       PRAIRIE      IDYL  37 

Spring,  slowly  wakes  to  life,  scant  plants  and 

seeds 
That  slumbered  in  the  dry,  dry  earth.     And 

still 
No  rain. 

Each  day  the  work  with  plow  and  spade 
Goes  on,  and  greater  length  is  added  to 
The  channels  that  shall  draw  the  water  from 
The  mountain  stream,  to  quench  the  dry  Earth's 

thirst, 

And  resurrect  the  seeds  entombed,  and  burst 
Their  bonds,  and  bid  them  spring  to  larger  life 
In  God's  glad  sunshine. 

RATTLESNAKES 

Longer  days  and  warmth, 
Awaken  slumberers  less  welcome  than 
Unfolding  leaves.  Half  dormant,  from  the  sod, 
Plow-turned,  they  crawl.    In  sunny  spots  they 

coil 
And  sleep.     Where  thorns  and  color  hide  them 

well, 
Through  cactus  beds  they  glide.  Across    the 

paths 
Oft  trod  by  human  feet,  they  slowly  drag 


38  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

Their    mottled    length.      Disturbed; — defiant, 

clear, 

And  shrill,  their  whirring  rattle  warns ; 
And  quickly  coiled,  they  spring  their  length  to 

strike 
With  poison  fangs,  the  angry,  fatal  blow. 

The  enmity  declared  in  Eden,  still 

Exists;  and  man  shall  bruise  the  serpent's  head, 

Till,  overcome  at  last,  the  hidden  foe 

No  more,  with  evil  threatens  childhood's  play, 

Or  him,  who  walks  upon,  or  tills  the  soil. 

IRRIGATION 

At  last  the  channels  have  been  made  that  shall 
Convey  the  thirsty  land,  the  cooling  draft, 
That  rippling,  dimpling,  on  its  busy  way, 
Bids  hidden  seed  and  fainting  plant,  take  heart 
And  grow.    The  stream  that  foamed  and  fret 
ted  down 

The  mountain  side,  a  rushing  torrent  made 
By  melting  snows  too  strong  and  turbulent 
To  keep  within  the  river's  banks,  full  well 
May  spare  the  portion  of  its  flood,  required 
To  make  the  sun-baked  prairie  green  and  glad. 


A       PRAIRIE       IDYL  39 

Barred  from  the  river's  swollen  tide,  it  turns 

No  longer  where  it  wayward  will,  but  on 

It  speeds  through  channels  skillfully  devised; 

And  smaller  streams,  by  its  free  bounty  fed, 

Divide  and  sub-divide,  till  o'er  the  land 

The    sparkling    water    sings    through    banks, 

flower-fringed, 
And  verdant. 

Oh!  the  joy!  the  joy!  when  first 
The  long-expected,  welcome  water,  came; 
Came   creeping,     rippling,    dancing,     singing, 

through 
The  earth-brown,  dusty  ways. 

All  things  grew  glad. 

The  tiny  seeds  that  long  had  dormant  lain, — 
Awoke  to  life,  and  joyous,  sent  their  green 
Leaves    forth;    fair   heralds    of    the    fragrant 

flowers 
They  soon  would  wave  in  air. 

On  pliant  stem, 

The  dainty  primrose  nods  and  smiles  at  its 
Reflected  image.     Balls  of  snow-white  bloom, 
Amid  the  leafage  green,  are  trailed  along 
The  banks,  till  all  the  air  is  heavy  with 
The  odor  sweet,  abronia  delights 


40  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

To  yield.     The  scarlet   mallows    gleams    and 

glows, 

And  countless  unnamed  blossoms  scent  the  air. 
The  cactus,  from  its  guarded  citadel, 
Defiant,  throws  its  banners  out,  and  seems 
Exultant  that,  unlike  its  rivals  gay, 
It  thrives  if  water  be  withheld.     In  long, 
Straight  rows  of  green,   distinct  and  bright, 

against 
The  brown,  brown  earth,  its  peaceful  blades, 

the  corn 

Upholds.     The  water  that  the  thirsty  earth 
Absorbed  on  either  side  the  buried  seed, 
Has  done  its  silent  work.    The  acres  to 
Alfalfa  sown,  grow  green,  enlivened  by 
The  gentle  floods ;  and  all  take  heart  again. 
The  garden  plants  upspring,  and  seem  to  vie, 
One  with  the  other,  in  attempts  to  add 
The  inches  to  their  length  or  height ;  so  well 
The  foot  baths  and  the  sun  baths  suit  them  all. 

Thus  water  works  its  wonders  in  a  land 
Where  scorching  days,    and    dewless    nights 

dry  to 

A  crisp,  the  native  grass  upon  the  plains ; 
And  as  the  standing  grass  is  turned  to  hay, 


.8 

H  H 


„*., 


APRAIRIEIDYL  41 

Imprison  in  each  part, — each  leaf  and  stem, — 
The  juices  sweet,  that  have  collected  there ; 
And  when  the  wintry  storms,  and  bitter  winds 
Prevail,  the  quadrupeds  that  roam  the  vast 
Expanse, — forlorn  and  shelterless, — find  there, 
The  food  that  makes  it  possible  for  them 
To  live  without  the  care  of  man. 

So  lived 

The  shaggy,  bellowing  herds  of  buffalo 
That  vanished  from  their    old-time    grazing 

ground 

Before  the  tide  of  empire's  onward  march, 
And  left  no  trace  that  they  had  ever  lived, 
Except  the  hollows  in  the  ground,  worn  by 
Their  clumsy  wallowing  in  the  mire ;  or  by 
The  bleaching  bones  of  their  old  patriarchs, 
That  dropped  from  out  the  moving  mass,  near 

some 

Well-trodden  path,  and  fell  to  rise  no  more. 
So  water  works  its  wonders  in  a  land — 
A  dreary,  desert  land, — till  homes  upspring, 
And  verdure  clothes  the   plains, — the   barren 

plains — 
And  Nature's  face  grows  bright  and  glad  with 

smiles ; 
And  bounty  blesses  all. 


42  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

THE     COLONY    FENCE 

A  stone's  throw  from 
The  house  there  stood  a  fence  that  stretched 

long  arms 

Around  the  little  town  and  scattered  homes, 
For  fifty  miles  or  more,  protecting  them 
As  best  it  might,  from  animals  turned  loose 
By  man,  to  roam  the  plains  and  live  there  as 
They  could; — vast  herds  of  cattle  all  untamed, 
And  bands  of  horses  that  had  never  known 
The  breaker's  bit. 

THE     COLONY 

Within  its  boundaries 
Brave  men  and  women  sought  to  make  their 

homes, 

And  found  a  city  that  should  stand  in  years 
To  come,  a  monument  to  Temperance; — 
A  place  uncursed  by  rum.     For  this,  they  left 
Dear  homes,  kind  friends,  the  opportunities 
And  comforts  of  the  east,  and  here,  beyond 
The  haunts  of  men,  found  room  to  work  their 

will. 
A  Moses,  full  of  faith  and  courage  led 


A      PRAIRIE      IDYL  43 

Them  on.    He  chose  the  spot  that  was  to  be 

A  land  of  promise  unto  all  who  came. 

Their  household  goods  they  gathered  up  and 

far 
They   followed  him.      When  first  the  desert 

plains 
They  saw,  some  cursed  aloud,  and  straightway 

turned 

Them  back  to  Egypt's  flesh-pots.    Others  said, 
"We  saw  the  cost  and  counted  it ;  we  came 
To  stay,  and  see  this  project  through ;  it  holds 
A  world  of  happy  chances  in  it."     Some 
Bewailed  their  lot,  and  moaned,  that  they  had 

lost 

Their  all  in  coming  here,  and  so  were  forced 
To  stay. 

With  naught  between  them  and  the  stars 
They  set  to  work.    A  common  shelter  had 
Been  made,  and  many  gathered  there  until 
Their  little  houses  could  be  built.    With  no 
Foundation — lacking    brick    and    stone — they 

grew 

Like  mushrooms  from  the  soil — the  little  homes 
That  meant  so  much  to  desert-stranded  men 
And  women.     Far,  their  sight  outreached  the 

bonds 


44  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

Of  present  insufficiencies.     With  faith 
So  strong,  it  knew  no  letting  down,  despite 
The  grumbler's   curse,   the  scoffer's  jeer,   the 

taunts, 

And  prophecies  of  ill, — the  little  band 
Of  earnest  people  held  their  own.     They  laid 
The  coming  city  out  with  generous  width 
Of  streets;  reserved  in  central  blocks  the  land 
For  parks;  gave  bonds,  and  built  a  house  for 

schools 

That  far  exceeded  present  needs, — yet  told 
In  language  unmistakable,  what  way 
Their  aspirations  turned. 

Already,  men 

Had  drawn  a  little  water  from  the  creek, 
And  tilled  small  gardens  with  its  aid,  upon 
The  bottoms,  near  the  river's  banks ;  but  these 
Brave  comers  were  the  first  to  tap  the  stream 
Well  toward  its  mountain  source,  and  bid  it 

spread 

Enlivening  waters  on  the  upland  plains, 
Far  from  the  river-bed; — the  desert  land, — 
That  needed  only  this  to  aid  the  toil 
Of  sturdy  yeomen,  ere  a  harvest  rich 
And  bountiful,  should  crown  their  labors  and 


A      PRAIRIE      IDYL  45 

Their  hopes.     Beneath   all  this   they   made   a 

law, — 

Inserted  clause  of  forfeiture  in  each 
And  every  deed  of  land  they  gave, — that  he 
Who  dared  to  sell  fermented  drinks,  should  lose 
His  title  to  his  land;  and  so  they  strove 
To  make  it  sure  the  town  should  never  know 
The  curse  that  liquor  traffic  brings.    Thus  they 
Foundation  laid  for  future  good.    Amid 
Discouragements  both  great  and  small,  they 

worked 

And  struggled  on.    Some  came  and  went  away ; 
And  some  remained;  till  from  the  restless  tide 
Of  human  life,  the  colony  began 
To  grow  in  numbers,  and  in  strength.     The 

cures, — 

So  wonderful — the  healing  air  had  wrought, 
Were  noised  abroad,  and  many  came  to  test 
Its  virtues ;  far  too  many  came  too  late, 
Who  earlier  coming,  might  have  gained  the 

boon 

Of  health.    But  many  came  to  know  the  joy 
Of  growing  well  and  strong  again ;  among 
Them,  Roland,  with  his  little  family. 


46  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

MID-SUMMER 

Midsummer's  scorching  heat  is  on  the  land, 
And  parched  and  brown  becomes  the  earth,  save 

where 

The  irrigating  waters  lend  their  cool 
And  life-sustaining  current. 

Fields  that  once 

Were  barren  as  the  land  surrounding  them, — 
Ere  man  had  turned  the  virgin  soil,  and  poured 
The  river's  flood  upon  it, — hold  aloft 
Their  varied  shades  of  green,  and  seem  more 

bright 
And  beautiful  by  contrast. 

Forth  the  sun 

In  early  morning  peers  from  curtain  clouds 
With  gold  and  crimson  richly  tinted ;  but, 
Awakes  no  answering  sparkle  from  the  grass 
The  silent,  passing  night  has  left  still  dry 
And  dewless.     Lined  against  the  western  sky, 
Like  faithful  sentinels,  the  mountains  stand, 
And  touched  by  morning's  rays,  their  snow- 
crowned  peaks, 

Agleam  with  rainbow-tinted  beauty,  send 
Responses  to  Aurora's  benison. 


APRAIRIEIDYL  47 

Far  north,  as  noonday  heat  approaches,  where 
No  water,  tree,  or  house  the  dull  plains  bear, 
Appears  what  seems  to  be  a  limpid  lake; 
Or  else,  perchance,  a  little  town  is  seen, 
With  trees  and  houses  all  presented  there ; — 
A  picture  which  the  heated  air  projects, — 
Delusive  picture, — desert-born  mirage. 
The  glowing  heat  would  drain  the  energy 
From  man  and  beast,  save  that  the  whitened 

peaks 
With  coolness  freight  the  breeze  that  wanders 

by, 

And  bears  its  grateful  burden  to  the  plains. 
Outside  the  fence,  the  cattle  wild,  that  see 
A  foe  in  man  and  never  knew  him  as 
A  friend,  and  horses  equally  untamed, 
Pass  slowly  down  to  where    the    low-drained 

creek 
But  barely  flows,  to  quench  their  thirst.    They 

file,— 

In  little  groups  along  the  crooked  paths 
Their   feet  have  worn   in   sod   so   tough   and 

dry, — 

Between  the  cactus  beds,  and  through  the  towns 
The  prairie  dogs  have  made.     From  out  their 

holes — 


48  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

Mound-guarded — cheery  settlers  come,  and  in 
The  sunshine  sit  and  bark,  or  run  from  mound 
To  mound,  as  if  on  social  calls  intent. 
Small  owls — intrusive  tenants,  or  perhaps, — 
The  marmots'  guests,  with  dull  and  sleepy  look, 
Upon  the  mounds  like  images  are  set. 

Adown  the  long  dividing  fence,  a  band 

Of  pretty,  graceful  antelope  appear, 

And  pausing  where  the  curving  ditch  upon 

Their  side  its  rippling  waters  offer,  slake 

Their  thirst  without  a  fear,  nor  question  how 

The  chance  should  meet  them  there.     With 

eager  heads 

Uplifted  high,  and  plaintive  eyes,  so  brown 
And  beautiful, — as  curious  as  Eve — 
Still  down  the  line  they  hold  their  way,  as  if 
They  seek  to  know  what  change  has  come  to 

pass 

Upon  their  plains,  where  Roland's  little  home 
Is  reared.     Then  warned  by  slightest  move 
ment,  or 

By  sound,  that  peril  may  ensue,  they  fly 
Across  the    prairies    wide,    with    length'ning 

bounds, 
And  feet  that  almost  spurn  to  touch  the  earth : 


"§•« 
la   « 


A      PRAIRIE      IDYL  49 

Then  turning — curiosity-impelled, 
Draw  near  once  more,  as  if  they  cannot  bear 
To  leave  the  mystery  unsolved ;  and  then 
With  startled  scent,  as  fleet  as  wind,  behind 
A  rising  point  of  ground  they  disappear. 

From  out  the  shelter  of  her  little  home 
All  this,  does  Margaret  behold,  and  thinks 
How  like  a  lighthouse  on  an  ocean  rock 
Her  place  of  refuge  is.    As  lies  the  tide 
Around  the  reef,  so  lies  the  boundless  plains 
Around  her  door,  and  which  is  more  alone? 
Within  her  home,  her  children's  voices  fill 
With  happy  shouts,  her  ear  and  heart.    If  those 
They  love,  are  well,  and  working  on,  and  up, 
How  much  of  wearing  burdens  women  learn 
To  bear  with  faith  and  patience,  ever  strong. 

LOST 

"The  house  is  done,  and  death  is  at  the  door ;" 
How  oft  has  time  the  proverb  proven  true. 
Within  the  prairie  home  again  events 
Its  aptness  verifies.     A  shadow  falls 
And    lifts    not.      Summer's    fervid    heat    has 
wrought 


50  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

A  change  upon  the  youngest,  frailest,  there, 
And  baby  Esther  droops  and  fades  away. 
With  anxious,  aching  hearts  they  seek  the  aid 
The  town  can  give,  and  hope  increases  when 
At  set  of  sun  she  falls  into  a  sleep, — 
A  quiet  sleep  that  seems  to  augur  well. 

With  heart  so  glad  and  thankful,  of  its  load 
Relieved,  about  her  household  duties,  light 
Of  step,  and  deft  of  hand,  goes  Margaret; 
For,  so  she  thinks,  the  morn  will  surely  bless 
Her  with  her  babe's  returning  health.    Alas, 
For  mother  love!     Ere    strikes    the    hour    of 

nine 

The  little  one  awakes  so  ill  that  hope 
Within  her  dies.    In  that  dread  hour  they  seek 
For  human  aid,  the  aid  they  cannot  find, 
Except  within  the  little  town,  an  hour's 
Long  ride  away.    The  only  neighbor  left 
Her  prairie  home  long  since,  to  minister 
To  one  beloved,  by  sickness  helpless  made. 
Scarce  twenty  rods  away,  the  horses  graze, 
With  hobbled  feet,  so  chained  together  that 
They  cannot  stray.     Assuring  Margaret 
That  he  will  soon  return,  and  begging  her 
To  bravely  keep  her  courage  up,  into 


APRAIRIEIDYL  51 

The  darkness  Roland  hastens  for  the  steeds 
That  must  be  had  to  make  a  hurried  trip 
To  town.    That  not  a  moment  may  be  lost, 
His  workman  with  him  goes.    He  glances  at 
The  dipper's  seven  stars,  and  notes  the  place 
They  hold  above  the  house ;  for  here  and  there 
Are  clouds,  and  once  outside  the  fence,  no  sign, 
No  landmark,  will  they  meet  to  show  the  way. 
Upon  the  horses'  heads  they  think  at  once 
To  lay  their  hands,  or  else  to  hear  them  bite 
The  grass,  or  clink  their  chains;  but  all  goes 

wrong, — 

As  if  all  things  conspired  against  the  life 
So  prized,  so  dear ;  for  after  searching  long 
In  vain,  at  last  they  realize  that  they, 
Themselves,  are  lost;  are  lost  as  wholly  as 
Two  men  can  be. 

The  clouds  have  thickened  in 
The  sky,  and  not  a  star  sheds  guiding  light ; 
The  wind  that  strongly  blew  from  out  the  west, 
Ere  they  had  lost  their  compass  points,  may 

guide 

Them  now;  as  men  in  sorest  strait  will  catch 
At  straws,  they  think  by  walking  facing  it, 
To  find  the  fence,  or  else  to  see  the  lights 


52  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

Of  home.     But  all  in  vain.     The  wind  has 

changed, 

Perhaps.     One  thing  is  certain;  they  are  lost. 
With  dire  forebodings  filled  of  what  this  new 
Misfortune  means  to  him,  and  those  so  dear, 
The  anxious  father  strives  in  everv  way 
To  find  again  the  doubly  shrouded  home. 
To  cover  larger  space  of  ground,  they  now 
Take  varying  paths,  and  listening  for  a  sound 
To  guide  them,  calling  to  each  other,  that 
They  may  not  separate  beyond  their  range 
Of  voice,  they  seek  to  find  their  way  from  out 
The  labyrinth  by  darkness  forced  upon 
Them.    Lost !  with  neither  compass,  polar  star, 
Or  light ;  for  e'en  the  lighthouse  home  has  failed 
Them  in  this  time  of  sorest  need. 

THE    FEARFUL    NIGHT 

How  fares 

The  lonely  watcher  in  the  lonely  house, 
So  helpless  in  her  dire  necessity  ? 
The  suffering  child  becomes  more  ill  each  hour, 
And  from  the  tortured  little  body  rings 
The  awful  piercing  cry  that  tells  of  brain 
Affected ;  cry,  that  tears  the  mother's  heart, 


A       PRAIRIE      IDYL  53 

And  fills  her  with  the  numbness  of  despair. 
Earl's  childish  hands  assist  as  best  they  can, 
And  all  the  simple  means  to  give  relief 
The  house  affords,  are  tried.    Awaking  from 
Her  rosy,  healthful  sleep,  in  pitying  tone, 
And  lisping  accent,  little  Ruthie  asks, 
"What  makes  the  darling  baby  cry  so  hard?" 
"So  sick !  so  sick !"  the  mother  moans ;  "and  he, 
Who  might  have  brought  us  help,  is  lost  upon 
The  cruel  plains ;  he  must  be  lost,  or  else 
Would  he  return."    And  so  the  fearful  night 
Drags  slowly  by,  and  morn  is  drawing  near, 
When  Roland,  pale  and  weary,  comes. 

"If  I 

Had  only  walked  to  town,"  he  said ;  "I  might 
Have  better  walked  there  thrice,  than  walk 
As  we  have  walked  this  night.  We  went  too  far 
To  north,  when  first  we  started  out,  and  then 
We  could  not  see  your  light,  I  later  learned, 
Because  the  shed  that  corners  on  this  room, 
And  rising  ground,  between  ourselves  and  it, 
Completely  hid  it  from  us.    Not  until 
We  traveled  miles,  did  we  behold  it;  then, 
We  found  the  fence  and  near  it  kept  until 
We  reached  the  house.     We  found  the  horses 
where 


54  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

They  always  are, — just  east  of  here,  and  John 
Has  gone  to  bring  the  doctor  out." 

Two  hours, — 

Two  precious  hours  must  pass  before  a  chance 
Of  help  is  theirs ;  before  is  overcome 
In  least  degree,  the  night's  relentless  foe, — 
The  settler's  dreaded  obstacle — great  space. 
With  morning's  light, — the  doctor  there — their 

hope 

Revives ;  but  as  the  sunset's  golden  gleam 
Falls  softly  on  the  earth  below,  the  pure 
Child-spirit  takes  its  flight,  as  gently  as 
The  flower  that  sleeps,  its  lovely  petals  folds 
Together. 

GRIEF'S    LOAD 

Hard,  how  hard,  the  mourner  knows, 
To  lay  the  loved  away,  and  turn  again 
To  take  life's  daily  burden  up ;  to  do 
Again  the  work,  whose  kindly  offices 
No  more  can  reach  to  them ;  to  leave  undone 
What  once  was  Love's  fond  offering ;  to  live 
O'er  weighted  with  the  sense  of  loneliness 
And  loss.    Yet  all  must  sometime  bear  Grief's 

load; 
The  only  choice  allowed  is,  how. 


APRAIRIEIDYL  55 

Now,  work 

That  must  be  done,  the  greatest  blessing  is ; 
The  faculties  employed  in  kindly  deeds 
For  others,  gently  draw  the  thoughts  from  self, 
And  teaches  less  to  brood,  with  sighs  and  tears, 
On  sorrows  past. 

The  days  pass  slowly  by ; 
The  morning  breaks ;  the  noon  pours  down  its 

heat; 

The  night,  its  gath'ring  shadows  brightens  with 
Its  train  of  countless  stars ;  alike  on  all 
Day's  changing  aspect  throws  a  light  or  shade ; 
And  hearts  respond  to  Nature's  moods,  as  they 
Attuned  to  joy  or  sorrow  are.    The  day 
Arrives,  that  marks  a  year  since  first  upon 
Her  angel  child  the  sorrowing  mother  looked ; 
What  might  have  been,  but  is  not,  fills  her 

heart ; 

Thoughts  come  demanding  utterance;  her  pen, 
The  medium  between,  she  takes,  and  writes. 

"A  year  ago  to-day  I  held  thee  first 

Within  my  loving  arms.     Where    art    thou, 

sweet  ? 

I  see  thee  not.     Thy  cradle  empty  stands, 
And  thou  art  gone.    Thy  earthly  home  knows 

thee 


56  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

No  more.    I  cannot  cause  this  human  heart 
To  cease  to  long  for  thee.    Was  mother  love 
Created  changeless,  deathless,  but  to  have 
Its  tendrils  rudely  snapped,  no  more  to  be 
United  ?    This  is  thy  birthday,  and  I, 
Thy  mother,  cannot  take  thee  in  my  arms ; 
Upon  thy  lips  no  birthday  kiss  can  press ; 
For  thou,  a  little  while  ago,  didst  have 
Another  birthday;  through  thine  own  suffer 
ings 

Thou  wast  born  into  the  realms  immortal. 
Why  do  I  weep  ?  What  cause  have  I  to  mourn  ? 
Thy  little  life  has  left  no  stain  upon 
Thy  pure  sweet  soul;  a  snow-white  bud  thou 

canst 

Unfold  in  heaven's  light,  in  loveliness 
More  lovely  still,  for  this,  thine  early  call. 
Hadst  thou  staid  here,  my  child,  thou  wouldst 

have  been 

Another  tie  to  bind  me  to  the  earth. 
But  now,  thy  little  hands  reach  out  to  me 
From  that  fair  land,  and  still,  a  little  child, — 
An  angel  child, — shall  lead  me  on.    Hast  thou, 
My  babe,  no  need  of  me  ?    Canst  thou  at  once 
Become  content  to  live  apart  from  thine 
Own  mother?    At  every  step  I  miss  thy  smile, 


NATHAN    C.    MEKKKR. 


"The  Moses  of  the  colony  again  >  I 
The  eager  leader  was — the  Agejit  'o"f 
The  government."  -Page  59.  ' 


APRAIRIEIDYL  57 

Thy  merry  shout,  thy  nestling-  head ;  then  in 
My  grief  I  pray  that  thou  knowst  not  the  pangs 
Of  parting;  that  to  thee  my  place  be  filled. 
One  moment,  thou  wast  here,  my  baby,  mine. 
The  next,  thou  wast  an  angel  babe,  and  yet, 
My  baby  still.    And  who  shall  say  but  what 
To  thee  my  loving,  tender  thoughts  shall  reach, 
And  make  thee  glad,  as  did  my  fond  caresses  ? 
There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  thought,  though  none 
May  say  that  it  is  truth.    The  grief  I  know, 
Can  never  come  to  thee.    My  sorrow  o'er 
Thy  grave  has  spared  thy  sorrow  over  mine. 
My  thoughts  are  full  of  thee,  and  thy  new  life." 

THE     AGENCY 

The    summer    passed.      September's    glowing 

days, 
And  frost-touched  nights  were  vanishing,  when 

clouds 

Of  smoke  appeared,  and  draped  their  murkiness 
Upon  the  land.    The  rays  of  sun  and  moon 
Were  dimmed.  The  mountains,  town,  and  river 

trees 
Were  veiled  from  sight,  and    nearer    objects 

scarce 


58  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

Could  be  descried.     Men  said,  "Fierce  forest 

fires 

Are  raging  in  the  hills."     But  none  told  why. 
Not  one  of  all  the  little  town  divined 
What  dreadful  deeds  that  dismal  cloud  fore 
told. 

For  days  and  weeks,  it  shrouded  like  a  pall 
The  land.    Then  came  a  rumor  of  the  truth, — 
The  fearful,  startling  tales  of  massacre, — 
Of  peril  and  captivity,  more  hard 
To  bear  than  death. 

Two  years  before,  a  band 
Of  earnest  workers  left  their  pleasant  homes, 
Within  the  fenced-in  prairie  town,  to  live 
Far  in  the  rugged  mountain  wilds,  where  dwell 
The  red-skinned  Utes.    It  was  to  be  their  task 
To  care  for  them ;  to  see  that  they  received 
The  stores  a  government  paternal,  sent 
Its  savage  wards ;  to  teach  them  careful  ways 
That  lead  to  comfort,  peace,  and  plenty. 

Men 

Went  there,  at  various  times  to  aid  the  work ; 
An  engineer,  to  plan  the  water-ways 
That  he  who  irrigates,  must  have ;  and  men 
To  lay  the  native  rock  as  masons  do; 


APRAIRIEIDYL  59 

And  other  workmen  went,  to  come  again, 
With  no  especial  danger  undergone. 

The  Moses  of  the  colony,  again 

The  eager  leader  was, — the  Agent  of 

The  government.    With  him  he  took  his  wife, — 

Both  now  well  past  the  three-score  line  of  age — • 

His  daughter  fair,  and  young,  and  slight, — to 

teach 

Papooses,  could  they  be  induced  to  learn — 
A  blacksmith  with  his  wife  and  infants  two, 
And  farmers  and  mechanics; — men  who  went 
To  till  the  soil,  build  houses,  ditches,  barns, — 
And  show  the  unskilled  Indian  how  he  might 
Improve  his  comfortless  condition,  should  he 

learn 
To  work.    Two  brothers  from  one  home  went 

forth ; 

Of  all  those  noble,  stalwart  men,  but  two 
E'er  saw  their  prairie  homes  and  friends  again ; 
One,  by  a  train  of  circumstances,  such 
As  oft  occurs,  was  led  to  hasten  home, 
Without  a  thought  of  danger  from  the  Utes, 
When  fatal  would  have  been  a  week's  delay; 
And  one,  a  messenger  was  sent  from  camp. 
The  leader,  whom  the  colonists  revered 


60  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

And  loved  as  "Father  Meeker,"  took  the  work 
In  hand  with  zeal  enthusiastic;  chose 
His  helpers  from  the  families  that  held 
High  rank  for  steadfastness,  integrity, 
And  worth,  and  sought  his  duties  to  perform 
With  faithfulness  and  care. 

THE    INDIANS 

The  Indians  loved 

Not  work ;  it  angered  them  to  see  the  sod 
Their  horses  grazed  upon,  turned  under  by 
The  plow,  though  grass  abounded,  farther  on. 
Their  pride  would  not  allow  young  Utes  to  go 
To  school.    Their  women  ridiculed  a  brave 
Who  tried  to  work.     The  "noble    red  men" 

wished 
To  hunt  and  fish,  and  roam  the  mountains, — 

free — 
Not  work  like  squaws.    They  claimed  the  land 

was  theirs, — 

The  Agent  and  his  men  were  there  to  work 
For  them.    The  more  they  heard  about  the  need 
Of  work,  about  the  good  to  come  from  it, 
The  angrier  they  grew.     This  state  of  things 
In  letters  reached  the  little  town.    Alarmed, 


APRAIRIEIDYL  6l 

The  friends  and  parents  urged  the  need  of  haste 
In  leaving  dangers  so  pronounced,  but  failed 
To  make  impression  on  the  men  who  thought 
Themselves  as  safe  as  they  within  the  fence, — 
So  far  deceived  were  they  by  treacherous  Utes. 

At  last  the  Agent  saw  that  coaxing  could 
Not  make  the  untrained  savage  work. 
They  grew  more  bold  and  insolent.     Upon 
The  grounds,  around  the  Agent's  house,  they 

danced 

Their  wild,  fantastic,  fear-inspiring  dance 
The  sign  of  war  to  come — and  made  the  long 
Night  hideous  with  shouts  and  yells.    At  morn, 
A  messenger  was  sent  to  ask  for  troops 
To  give  protection  and  enforce  the  rules 
The  government  had  made  concerning  its 
Supplies. 

For  months  before  the  bursting  storm 
Had  shown  a  threat'ning  cloud,  and  one  who 

knew 

The  Indian  well,  a  warning  would  have  read. 
At  times,  the  Denver  papers  published  things 
About  the  Utes  that  maddened  them ;  the  one 
Who  wrote  them,  doubtless,  never  thought  the 

braves 


62  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

Would  hear,  or  understand ;  but  some  one  read 
It  all  to  them, — interpreted  the  words, 
And  cruelly,  maliciously,  it  seems, 
Made  them  believe  the  Agent  wrote  the  tales. 
Indignant,  to  the  agency  they  went, 
And  angrily  accused  the  gray-haired  man 
Of  writing  lies  of  them,  and  word  for  word 
Repeated  what  the  papers  said. 

One  day, 
A  flaming  headline  came;  "THE  UTES  MUST 

Go!" 

The  Agent  sadly  laid  his  paper  down, 
And  said,  as  if  he  felt  presentiment 
Of  what  awaited  him,  "The  Utes  must  go; 
But  first,  a  sacrifice  must  be,  and  I, 
Perhaps  as  well  as  any  one,  may  fill 
The  place."    The  other  men  knew  well  the  light 
In  which  the  good  old  man  was  placed,  and 

feared 

For  him  at  times,  but  little  thought  the  Utes, 
Who  loved  to  be  with  them,  and  hear  them 

sing, 

And  play  the  violin,  and  talk,  and  laugh, 
Could  so  forget  their  friendship  as  to  wish 
To  harm  the  others  at  the  agency. 
The  scattered  settlers  felt  themselves  unsafe, 


APRAIRIEIDYL  63 

And  read  their  danger  in  such  deeds  as  these, — 
Their  cattle  driven  off,  or  maybe  killed ; 
Large  fires  left  to  mark  the  homeward  path 
Of  braves  returning  from  some  distant  peak. 

The  Utes  denied  strange  white  men  any  right 
To  step  upon  their  soil.     This  fact  was  shown 
With  all  its  frightful  possibilities 
When  men  from  Denver  traveled  there  to  view 
The  place  and  interview  the  men.    The  first 
The  Agent  knew  of  threatened  trouble,  Utes 
Came  running  to  his  house,  exclaiming,  wild 
With    great   excitement,  "White   men   here!" 

and  in 

An  instant  all  the  braves  were  armed  and  placed 
In  battle  line,  a  horde  against  the  few 
Intruders  who  had  risked  their  lives  in  this 
Attempt.    The  Agent  saw  the  danger,  not 
Alone  to  stranger  whites ;  for  should  the  tribe 
In  deeds  of  lawlessness  begin  to  act, — 
Then  all  must  suffer;  quick  as  thought  he  flung 
The  Stars  and  Stripes  upon  the  breeze;  the 

Utes, 

Beneath  its  folds,  a  certain  safety  felt, 
And  quietly  dispersed, — so  quickly,  that 
They  seemed  within  the  ground  to  disappear. 


64  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

Still  holding  that  the  white  man  should  not 

come, — 

The  sending  for  the  soldiers  angered  them, 
And  grass  was  burned  to  make  it  difficult 
For  cavalry  to  reach  their  rocky  heights. 
The  Utes  on  every  hand  applied  the  torch, 
And  mountains  glowed  with  fiercest  flames,  and 

grand 
Old  trees, — whole  forests — blackened  by  them 

fell. 

THE    MASSACRE 

The  chiefs  and  their  out-runners  knew  when 

first 

The  soldiers  stepped  upon  the  mountain  soil. 
They  met  them  and  professed  great  friendship 

for 

The  whites ;  then  went  their  way  to  meet  again, 
And  disappear,  mysteriously  as  they 
Had  come.    Upon  their  slow  and  tiresome  way, 
O'er  unbridged  creeks,  up  mountain  sides,  and 

down 

The  deep  ravines,  the  troops  and  wagon  trains 
Proceeded ;  keen-eyed  scouts  no  farther  sign 
Of  warriors  saw,  and  all  went  well  until 


r  MI-SS   JOSEPHINE   MEEKER. 

'His    daughter,    fair    and    young    and    slight, — to  teach 
Papooses,    could    they    be    induced    to    learn."  —-Page    59. 


APRAIRIEIDYL  65 

They  reached  a  rapid  creek,  where  rocky  cliffs 
On  either  side  o'erhung  the  narrow  trail, 
And  there  the  two-faced  Utes  rained  bullets 

from 

The  rocks  above,  and  murdered  Thornburg  and 
Eleven  of  his  gallant  men,  and  thrice 
As  many  wounded  fell. 

For  full  three  days 
And  nights,  the  suffering  remnant  held  their 

own 

Against  the  Utes,  then  slightly  reinforced, 
Held  out  as  long  again,  till  Merritt  and 
His  force  came  up,  and  then    the    sneaking 

braves, 

With  many  wounded,  and  with  twenty  dead, 
All  silently  withdrew. 

Advancing  toward 
The  agency,  a  courier  was  met, — 
By  Father  Meeker  sent  in  search  of  aid — 
A  lucky  errand,  since  it  saved  his  life, 
Though  every  step  with  danger  was  beset. 
Still  farther  on,  the  soldiers  found  a  note 
Upon  a  bush,  beside  the  trail, — placed  there, 
They  later  learned,  by  ranchmen  fleeing  from 


66  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

The  Utes;  and  thus  it  read:     "Urge  on  the 

troops ! 
All  murdered  at  the  agency!" 

A  few 
Hours'  march  and  they  were  standing  on  the 

site 

Where  once  the  agency  had  been — for  here, 
The  ready  torch,  again  had  done  its  work. 
White  river,  hurrying  down  its  rocky  path, 
And  gliding  through  the  meadows  green,  still 

sang 

Its  gurgling  song  as  merrily  as  if 
No  grief,  or  trouble  ever  was.     All  else 
Was  still.     Death's  quiet  reigned.     And  there 

they  lay, — 

The  murdered,  mutilated  men.    All  slain 
By  painted  fiends.     The  kind  and  good  old 

man, 

His  seven  young  assistants, — noble,  brave, 
The  hope  of  parents  and  the  joy  of  friends; 
All  slain  by  those  they  labored  for, — to  whom 
They  wrought  at  all  times  naught  but  good. 

THE     CAPTIVES 

Where  now 
The  three  frail  women  and  the  little  ones, 


APRAIRIEIDYL  67 

Defenceless  left?    In  sad  captivity, 
Deep  in  the  heart  of  Rocky  Mountain  wilds, 
They  bravely  live  from  day  to  day,  and  know 
Not  but  each  fateful  hour  may  be  their  last. 
Before  the  fearful  massacre  began, 
They  saw  strange  Indians  around  the  place, 
And  wondered  what  their  coming  might  por 
tend; 

When  soon,  the  fatal  balls  began  to  fly, 
They  hid  in  buildings ;  driven  thence  by  smoke 
And  flames,  they  sought  to  reach  the  cover  of 
The  brush,  but  wounded  by  a  rifle  ball, 
The  elder  woman  fell.    Then  came  the  Utes, 
And  bade  them  mount  and  go  with  them. 

The  moon 

Rose  full  and  beautiful  upon  the  scene. 
The  warriors  decked  with  feathers  and  with 

paint, 

The  pack  mules  laden  with  their  stolen  goods, 
The  doubly  burdened  ponies,  filed  along 
The  winding  Indian  trail, — a  cavalcade, 
Grotesque  and  weird,  and  somber  as  the  night. 
When  several    long    and    weary    hours    had 

passed 

A  halt  was  made  for  rest,  and  then  the  chief 
His  noble  qualities  displayed  by  threats 


68  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

With  dreadful  anger  filled.     A  loaded  gun 
He  placed  at  one  poor  captive's  head,  to  prove 
If  she  would  shrink,  or  run  away.     "I  shall 
Not  run,"  she  said :  "I  fear  not  you,  nor  death." 
Another,  treated  like  the  first,  said,  "Shoot ! 
I  care  not  if  I  die."     "Brave  squaw!  Good 

squaw ! 
No  scare!"  the  great  Chief  Douglass  said;  then 

laughed 
And  jeered  at,  by  his  braves  he  slunk  away. 

Again,  they  took  the  rugged  mountain  trail. 
The  sorrow-stricken  captives  could  but  note 
How  awe-inspiring  in  the  moon's  pale  light 
The  grandeur  of  the  scenes  through  which  they 

filed, 
Like  moving  shadows;   'neath  the  tall   dark 

pines, 

By  giant  rocks,  o'er  dizzy  heights  they  went, 
Down  deep  ravines,  beside  the  foaming  stream 
That  thundered  o'er  its  rocky  bed,  and  on, 
To  where  the  Utes  had    lately    moved    their 

camp, 
To  have    their    squaws    and    children    safely 

placed, 
In  preparation  for  the  war  they  planned. 


A      PRAIRIE      IDYL  69 

Again,  when  passed  the  noon  of  night,  they  left 
The  trail,  and  made  a  second  halt  beside 
An  ice-cold  stream,  that  through  a  canon  ran, — 
A  canon,  deep  and  dark,  by  towering  peaks 
Hedged  in  on  every  side,  and  here  they  found 
The  squaws  encamped.     The  wounded  lady, 

sore 

And  stiffened  by  her  ride,  could  not  dismount ; 
Chief  Douglass  dragged  her  from  her  horse, 

nor  cared 
That  she  should  helpless  fall.     The  squaws, 

more  kind 

And  gentle,  made  for  her  a  blanket  bed. 
The  women,  placed  in  separate  tents,  that  sad 
And    direful     night,     slept    little.       Morning 

brought 

A  foaming  pony  in,  whose  rider  told 
Of  Thornburg's  battle  in  the  pass.    This  news 
Aroused  the    braves,   and    great    excitement 

reigned ; 

The  ponies  hurriedly  were  saddled,  and 
Bedecked  with  gaudy,  savage  hideousness, 
The  yelling  warriors  hastened  to  the  front. 
The  captives  with  the  squaws  remained.    Some 

felt 
A  pity  for  the  whites,  and  wept  with  them ; 


70  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

They  petted,  in  their  way,  the  little  ones, 
Who  bravely  bore  the  hardships  as  they  came, 
And  learned  to  sing  the  weird  and  mournful 

songs 
The  squaws  sung  'round  the  captives'  beds  at 

night. 

The  red  men  liked  the  "white  papooses"  much, 
And  when  they  learned  they  could  not  steal 

them  from 

The  mother's  clinging  arms,  they  tried  to  buy, 
And  offered  ponies  in  exchange  for  them. 
Squaw  Susan  made  them  moccasins  to  wear, 
And  over  them  she  wept,  because  the  Utes 
Had  made  them  fatherless;  with  kindly  deeds 
She  often  eased  the  captives'  dreary  lot. 
Squaw  Susan  was  the  sister  of  Ouray, — 
"The  white  man's  friend,"— the  head  of  all  the 

Utes; 
And  both,  the  captives  learned,  were  "friends 

indeed." 

In  intellect  and  heart,  they  seemed  above 
The  others  of  their  tribe.    Ouray  had  lived 
With  whites,  and  spoke  the  Spanish  language 

well; 

And  Susan  owed  her  life  to  them,  and  still, 
The  debt  of  gratitude,  desired  to  pay. 


APRAIRIEIDYL  71 

Long  years  before,  when  she  was  young",  be 
fore 

The  colonists  had  thought  to  settle  on 
The  arid  plains  and  found  the  busy  town 
For  Horace    Greeley    named,    white    soldiers 

saved 

Her  life.     'Twas  then,  Arapahoes,  the  red 
Men  of  the  plains,  at  war  with  mountain  Utes, 
Had  bound  a  captured  squaw,  to  burn  her  at 
A  tree,  just  north  of  where  that  town  now 

stands, 

Not  far  from  where  the  winding  Poudre  flows ; 
The  brush  was    piled,    the    torch    applied, — 

when  lo ! 

A  band  of  soldiers  from  the  Collins  fort, 
Scarce  thirty  miles  away,  appeared,  and  saved 
The  dusky  Indian  maiden  from  her  foes, 
And  sent  her  safely  to  her  tribe, — the  Utes 
Beyond  the  snowy  range.    They  gave  her  then 
The  name  she  bore,  and  Susan  never  did 
Forget. 

While  yet  the  warriors  were  away, 
The  squaws  broke  camp  and  moved  still  farther 

on 

To  where  the  mountains  framed  a  valley  rich 
In  grass,  that  covered  it  luxuriantly, 


72  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

And  through  which  ran  a  pure  and  sparkling 

stream. 

The  red  men  now  returned  by  twos  and  threes, 
And  wore  with  pride  the  clothing  taken  from 
The  soldiers  they  had  slain.  They  piled  the 

sage 

Brush  high,  spread  over  it  the  stolen  clothes, 
And  danced  around  the  pile,  with  fearful  yells, 
And  actions  frightfully  suggestive  of 
The  ghastly  deeds  the  hideous  men  might  do. 
At  night,  the  Indians  held  a  council  long, 
And  plainly  fraught  with  grave  intent.    Ouray 
Had  sent  a  messenger  commanding  Utes 
To  let  the  pale-faced  captives  go ;  he  liked 
Not  that  a  portion  of  his  tribe  had  gone 
To  war.    He  bade  them  cease  the  bloody  work ; 
And,  on  the  other  hand,  a  great  white  chief 
With  many  warriors,  hastened  towards  their 

camp. 

A  day  of  indecision  passed,  and  then 
The  tents  were  taken  down,  the  ponies  packed 
With  camp  utensils,  and  at  fearful  pace 
All  hastened  over  mountains  steep,  that  one 
Who  walked  could  scarcely  pass.    With  neither 

food, 
Or  rest,  or  water,  dragged  the  dreadful  day, 


OURAY  AND  CHIPETA. 

"Released  at  last  they  traveled  to  the  home 
Of  Chief  Ouray.  His  wife,  Chipeta,  wept 
For  them  because  their  lot  had  been  so  hard."  Page  77. 


A      PRAIRIE      IDYL  73 

While  blew  the  wind  so  terribly,  that  dust 
Enveloped  them  as  might  a  cloud. 

The  dame, 

So  frail  at  best,  but  wounded  now.  and  weak, 
Xo  saddle  and  no  bridle  had,  and  much 
She  suffered  on  that  cold  and  cruel  ride. 
Her  captors  little  cared  if  she  should  die; 
They  dared  not  murder  her.  as  helpless  as 
She  was :  they  thought  that  their  "Great  Spirit" 

loved 
The  "Heap  good  doctor  woman"  much,  and 

feared 

His  anger  should  they  take  her  life :  and  yet 
They  would  have  lost  her  in  those  wilds,  to 

starve, 

Or  fall  a  prey  to  beasts,  without  regret : 
And  knowing  this,  the  other  captives  watched 
Her  well     At  night  a  camping    place    was 

reached: 

The  women  gladly  parted  from  their  steeds. 
And  sank  exhausted  on  the  ground. 

Beside 
Grand  River  they  were  camped   for  several 

days. 
The  Indians  from  the  mountains  high,  each 

day 


74  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

The  soldiers  watched  with  glasses  looking  far. 
With  foaming  steeds  the  runners  often  came, 
At  last,  with  news  that  troops  were  drawing 

near. 

This  word  in  camp  a  fearful  panic  made; — 
A  riot  wild;  the  warriors  ran  this  way 
And  that;  Chief  Johnson,    maddened    at   the 

sense 

Of  danger  near,  his  anger  vent  upon 
His  youngest  squaw,  who  screamed  with  fright 

and  pain, 

As  fell  the  brutal  lash.     The  ponies  felt 
The  tumult  in  the  air,  and  snorted,  reared, 
And  ran,  until  it  seemed  as  if  they  could 
Not  be  subdued ;  but  caught  at  last,  the  tents 
Were  taken  down,  the  burden-bearing  beasts 
Were  loaded  once  again ;  the  camp  was  moved 
Still  farther  south,  and  on,  and  on,  and  on, 
For  three  days  more. 

The  rain  began  to  fall, 
And  every  day  the  women  and  the  babes 
Were  drenched  with  it.     The  Utes  could  not 

retreat 

Much  farther ;  they  were  near  the  limit  of 
Their  reservation, — near  the  snowy  range. 
Again  they  camped,  and  here  remained  until 


APRAIRIEIDYL  75 

The  soldiers  came, — till  General  Adams  came 
To  take  the  captives  home.    The  red  men  spent 
The  time  in  camp  hilariously ;  they  danced 
And  sang.    The  "white  papooses"  joined  with 

them 

Right  gleefully.     The  little  ones  soon  learned 
To  imitate  their  dances  and  to  sing 
Their  droning  songs.     Their    savage    captors 

watched 

Them  with  delight,  and  more  than  ever,  wished 
To  purchase  them. 

At  times  the  fleeing  Utes — 
Made  homeless  by  their  own  misdeeds, — de 
clared 

The  blame  was  all  the  Agent's,  who  they  said, 
Would  make  them  work,  and  would  not  do 

as  he 
Was  told  by    them.     Chief    Douglass    sadly 

shook  his  head, 
And  said,  "Me  heap  poor  man!" 

A  conference 

Had  been  agreed  upon,  at  last,  between 
The  soldiers  and  the  warring  tribe.    The  sky 
Was  tinted  with  the  sunset's  brilliant  glow 
When  braves  appeared  and  told  their  prisoners, 


76  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

"To-morrow,  five  white  men  will  come,  and 

one, 
A  heap  big  man    of    peace."     The    captives 

heard 
The  news  with  joy.    The  morning  brought  the 

friends 
They  could  not  greet  with  words,  so  great  was 

their 

Emotion.     Hardship,  insult,   ridicule 
And  peril,  they  had  borne  without  a  tear, 
But  kindly  faces  looking  into  theirs, 
The  clasp  of  friendly  hands,  could  not  be  seen 
And  felt,  unmoved. 

Ouray  gave  orders  that 
The  captives  should  be  treated  well  and  be 
Allowed  to  go.     A  stormy  council  then 
Ensued.    A  portion  of  the  Utes  desired 
To  hold  the  prisoners  between  themselves 
And  justice  until  peace  should  be  declared — 
And  others  wished  them  freed. 

The  speeches  grew 

In  length  and  violence,  when  Susan  burst 
Into  the  council  lodge,  in  gorgeous  wrap 
Arrayed, — a  robe  of  finest  skin  of  deer, — 
With  beads  and  fringes  trimmed, — demanding 

that 


A       PRAIRIE      IDYL  77 

The  captives  should  be  freed;  she  told  their 

tale 

Of  suffering  and  woe,  and  pled  their  cause 
So  well,  that  speedily  she  won  it.    Three 
And  twenty  days  the  Utes  their  captives  held. 
Released  at  last,  they  traveled  to  the  home 
Of  Chief  Ouray.    His  wife,  Chipeta,  wept 
For  them,  because  their  lot  had  been  so  hard, 
And  shared  with  them  the  comforts  of  her 

home. 
The     fleet,      sure-footed      horses, — mountain 

reared — 

Between  them  and  their  captors,  day  by  day, 
A  long  and  welcome  space  stretched  out,  until 
Tall  ranges  loomed  between  them  and  the  land 
Of  their  captivity  and  woe, — until 
The  swifter  horse  of  steam  was  reached  that 

sped 
Them  to  their  friends. 

Words  fail  to  paint  the  joy, 
The  grief  of  that  home-coming.     Welcomes 

filled 

The  air,  the  tears  and  smiles  all  faces  showed. 
The    flags  at    half-mast  hung;    in    mourning 

draped 


78  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

Was  all  the  town.    The  people  like  one  great 
And  loving  family  bereaved,  did  mourn. 

PRAIRIE     ROVERS 

As  winter  days  draw  near,  the  dwellers  in 

The  lonely  prairie  home  see  phases  of 

The  life  upon  the  plains,  still  new  to  them. 

Upon  the  unclaimed  land,  that  stretches  far, 

A  herder,  with  his  dog  and  pony,  comes 

To  watch  his  white-fleeced  flock  the  while  they 

graze 

Upon  the  prairie's  dried  nutritious  grass, 
Named  for  the  buffalo  it  nourished  in 
The  years  gone  by,  when  they, — the  monarchs 

of 
The    plains, — in    countless    numbers    roamed 

these  wastes. 

The  coyote  skulks  from  knoll  to  knoll  in  search 
Of  prey,  his  hunger  to  appease,  and  with 
His  many-keyed,    blood-curdling    howls    and 

yelps, 

Awakes  uncanny  echoes  in  the  night. 
His  larger,  but  less  noisy  relative — 
The  wolf — comes  not  so  near  the  haunts  of 

men, 


APRAIRIEIDYL  79 

But  out  upon  the  plains,  in  greedy  packs, 
Surround  the  smaller  herds,  and  animals 
Are  harassed,  till  they  can  endure  no  more, 
And  fall,  their  victims.    Rabbits  bound  away 
With  startling  swiftness,  when  a  passer-by 
Draws  near  their  sheltering  tuft  of  grass.  Wild 

geese 

And  ducks  between  the  river  and  the  fields 
Where  grain  has  grown,  make  frequent  jour- 

neyings. 
The  buzzard,  and  the    hawk,    dark   birds   of 

prey- 
Oft  circle  'round;  but  no  sweet  song    birds 

come; 

The  treeless,  vineless  prairie  offers  them 
No  sheltered  and  alluring  nesting  place. 

THE    BRONCO    BREAKERS 

Across  the  country,  cowboys  with  a  band 
Of  cattle  come,  with  outfit  all  complete 
For  them  to  live  upon  the  plains  for  weeks. 
To  keep  the  riders  well  supplied  with  steeds, 
Both  fresh  and  active,  extra  horses  with 
Them  travel.     Passing  through  the  settlement, 
Where  many  objects  block  their  way,  they  ride 
The  horses  broken  to  the  work.    But  once 


80  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

Outside  the  fence,  where  no  obstructions  are, 
The  untamed  broncos  are  compelled  to  yield 
Subjection  to  the  master's  bit  and  spur. 

With  piercing  shouts  from  riders,  ponies  crowd 
The  weary  cattle  through  the  open  gate, 
And  reach  a  point  where  all  may  take  a  rest. 
The  men  and  beasts  seek  comfort,  each  in  his 
Own  way.     The  hungry  herd  spread  out  to 

crop 

The  sweet  dry  grass,  or  lie  them  down  to  sleep. 
The  cook,  his  prairie  schooner,  filled  with  food 
Supplies  and  blankets,  draws  aside,  and  lights 
A.  fire  and  soon  prepares  a  smoking  meal. 

Refreshed  and  rested,  all  are  ready  for 
The  start.    A  theater  the  boundless  plains 
Become  at  once,  where  reckless  riders  show 
Their  daring  skill.    The  cowboys,  mounted  on 
Their  well-trained   steeds,   each  singles   from 

the  herd 

The  bronco  he  intends  to  break.    A  dash, 
A  leap,  away,  across  the  plains  they  go, — 
Pursuer  and  pursued.     Above  his  head 
The  rider  swings  his  lariat,  as  on 
They  fly.    His  knowing  pony  understands 


APRAIRIEIDYL  8l 

The  part  that  it  must  act,  as  fully  as 

The  horseman  knows  his  own.     The  fleeing 

horse, 

Unburdened,  makes  a  picture  full  of  strength 
And  spirit,  and  of  beauty,  as  it  speeds 
Courageously,  with  nervous,  reckless  haste. 
The  other,  in  reserve  his  fleetness  holds, 
And  heads  the  fleer  off  at  every  turn. 
The  moment  that  the  rider  nears  his  prize, 
The  circling,  buzzing  rope,  with  angry  hiss 
And  whir,  cuts  swiftly  through  the  air,  and 

lands 

Its  choking  slip-noose  'round  the  bronco's  neck. 
The  pony,  at  that  instant  turns,  and  plants 
His  four  feet  firmly  on  the  ground,  and  holds 
Them  there,  with  rope  attached  to  saddle  horn, 
Until  the  frightened,  well  nigh  strangled  beast, 
Decides  to  quit  its  rearing,  plunging  fight, 
And  go  wherever  it  is  led.    And  now, 
The  troubles  of  the  untamed  horse  have  but 
Begun.     The  rider's  weight  upon  its  back, 
The  bit,  the  saddle,  it  must  learn  to  know. 
The  trembling  bronco  stands  with  blinded  eyes, 
And  fettered  feet,  or  throws  itself  upon 
The  ground,  while  men  adjust    the    binding 

straps. 


82  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

The  rider  springs  into  the  saddle  seat ; 
The  blinds  and  fetters  off,  across  the  plains 
The  frantic  bronco  tears  and  plunges,  rears 
And  jumps,  with  legs  held  straight  and  stiff, 

in  vain 

Attempts  to  throw  the  fearless  man,  who  sits 
As  firm  and  easily  as  if  he  were 
A  portion  of  the  animal.     Each  man 
Subdues  his  horse  with  little  difference 
Of  skill  and  strength.    The  captor  ponies  now 
Enjoy  a  well-earned  rest,  to  travel  with 
The  band  turned  loose.     The  broncos,  yield 
ing  to 

Their  riders'  will,  at  last,  are  made  to  urge 
The  quadrupeds  upon  their  way,  and  soon, 
A  cloud  of  dust  declares  the  exit  of 
The  various  actors  from  the  mammoth  stage. 

WILD     HORSES 

Large  bands  of  horses  no  one  owns,  run  wild 
Upon  the  plains,  and  men  inured  to  toil 
And  danger,  often  try  to  capture  them. 
The  horse  is  not  a  native  of  this  land. 
The  Spaniards  knew  his  worth  and  brought 
him  here. 


APRAIRIEIDYL  83 

These  unclaimed  herds  must  be  the  progeny 
Of  animals  that  one  day  knew  the  care 
Of  man,  perhaps  escaped,  when  savages 
Their  owners  massacred,  or  from  them  strayed, 
When  they  defied  the  perils  of  the  plains 
In  seeking  California's  new-found  gold. 

Along  the  dusty  trail,  a  little  band 

Of  men  and  horses  come,  and  slowly  near 

The  gate.     The  riders  pause  to  quench  their 

thirst 

Where  Roland's  well  a  cooling  draft  supplies. 
The  horses  that  the  watchful  men  surround, 
Are  captives, — weary  and  dispirited, — 
That  but  a  few  short  days  ago,  arched  their 
Proud  necks,  and  fleet  of  foot,  with  flowing 

manes 

And  tails,  as  swiftly  as  the  wind  across 
The  prairies  sped,  untrammeled  by  the  will 
Of  man.     One  hardy,  skillful  horseman,  broad 
Of  chest,  and  bronzed  by  wind  and  sun,  who 

knows 

So  thoroughly  the  almost  trackless  plains, 
And  reads  so  well  the  guidance  of  the  stars 
He  has  no  fear  of  being  lost  by  day 


84  PEN      PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

Or  night,  has    hunted    these    wild    creatures 

years, 

And  studied  them  until  he  knows  full  well 
Their  habits  and  their  haunts.     The  captor  of 
A  thousand  head  and  more,  the  settlers  far 
And  near,  know  "Wild  Horse  Jerry."    Resting 

now, 

With  questions  plied,  he  tells  the  story  of 
His  novel  work,  in  substance  given  here. 

WILD    HORSE    JERRY'S    STORY 

All  over  this  unsettled  country,  bands 
Of  wild  and  unowned  horses  roam,  each  band 
Protected  and  controlled  by  one  strong  male. 
This  stallion  will  allow  no  rival  near, 
And  weaker  males  are  often  found  alone, 
Upon  the  plains.    Terrific  fights  sometimes 
Ensue,  when  two  aspire  to  leadership. 
I  followed  once,  for  forty  hours  or  more, 
A  band  that  was  becoming  very  tired; 
We  chanced  to  pass  upon  the  plains,  one  of 
These  lone  and  beaten  males.     He  seemed  at 

once 

To  know  his  hated  rival's  strength  was  gone, 
And  saw  his  chance  to  take  the  band  from  him. 


A      PRAIRIE      IDYL  85 

They  fought  for  mastery  for  more  than  half 
A  day,  and  reared,  and  struck,  and  bit,  and  fell 
Upon  their  knees  and  wrestled  terribly, 
Until  the  lonely  horse  the  leadership 
Assumed, — made      victor      by      his      greater 
strength. 

The  man  who  captures  these  wild  animals 
Must  test  his  patience  and  endurance  well. 
When  I  discover  where  they  range,  I  make 
My  camp  as  near  them  as  I  can  and  still 
Be  near  a  good  supply  of  water;  then, 
I  place  my  men  and  extra  horses  there — 
In  camp — and  ride  out  toward  the  wary  band. 
You  know  all  horses  cling  to  their  old  range, 
And  will  not  leave  it  unless  driven  off, 
And  then,  when  free,  return.    This  instinct, — 

when 

I  only  follow  them  enough  to  keep 
Them  moving, — causes  them  to  circle  some, 
And  makes  it  quite  an  easy  thing  for  me 
To  have  a  new  fresh  horse  from  camp  when 

mine 

Is  tired.     Wild  horses  are  intelligent, 
And  harder  to  surprise  than  antelope. 
They  see  me  when  a  mile  away,  and  stand 


86  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

And  watch  me  for  awhile,  and  when  they  learn 
That  I  am  nearing  them,  they  run  to  some 
Far  hill  and  watch  again.     When  they  decide 
That  they  are  followed,  then,  the  work  begins. 
They  then  will  start  and  run  for  twenty  miles, 
Or  more.     I  do  not  try  to  follow  near 
To  them,  but  ride  the  way  they  went  until 
They  notice  me,  and  run  again,  and  so 
Allow  them  little  time  to  eat,  or  sleep. 
I  always  let  them  drink;  they  then  become 
More  gentle  and  less  active,  too.     I  do 
Not  try  to  crowd  them  day  and  night,  but  try 
To  get  them  used  to  seeing  me.     A  day 
Or  two,  I  work  like  this,  and  then  ride  near 
To  them,  and  in  a  measure  can  direct 
Their  course.     The  yearlings  tire  out  first  and 

want 

To  stop.    One  time,  a  leader  tried  to  drive 
Me  back ;  as  he  came  near  to  me  I  threw 
Some  rocks  and  hit  him  just  behind  the  ear; 
I  felled  him  several  times ;  at  last,  he  kept 
Away,  but  still  showed  fight.    Three  days  and 

nights 
I've  followed    these    wild    creatures,    without 

sleep, 
Excepting,  that  I  dozed  a  little  as 


A       PRAIRIE      IDYL  87 

I  rode.    The  horses  were  so  weary  that 
They  could  not  travel  fast,  or  far;  I  drove 
Them  very  carefully  into  a  strong 
Corral,  so  made,  that  it  did  not  betray 
It  was  a  trap  for  them.     If  I  had  urged 
Them  then,  they  would  have  scattered,  and  my 

work 

Would  all  have  been  in  vain.    The  largest  herd 
I  ever  caught,  was  thirty.     Men  have  stunned 
And  captured  animals  they  coveted, 
By  "creasing"  them;  they  wound  with  rifle  ball 
A  certain  cord  upon  the  horse's  neck, 
Which  causes  him  to  fall  unconscious ;  then, 
They  bind  their  prize,  and  hold  him  prisoner, 
And  while  they  cure  the  wound,  they  tame  the 

horse. 

It  often  happens  that  the  bullet  strikes 
A  vital  point,  an  inch  below  the  mark, 
And  then  the  noble  creature  murdered  falls, — 
A  victim  of  man's  cruelty  and  greed. 

THE     BLIZZARD 

Mid-winter's  days,  with  skies  of  cloudless  blue, 
And  sun  of  dazzling  brightness,  come  and  go, 
With  little  hint  of  storm,  or  bitter  cold, 


88  PEN      PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

While  Boreas  allows  the  milder  winds 
To  sweep  the  plains.    Vast  herds  of  cattle  feed 
Upon  the  prairie  grass,  and  scattered  far, 
They  crop  the  hay-like  spears,  that  August's 

heat, 
And  lack  of  moisture,  cured    to    meet    their 

wants. 

Some  stagnant  pool  supplies  the  water  they 
Must  drink,  unless,  they  happily  may  range 
In  some  fair  valley,  that  a  flowing  stream 
Makes  glad.     Unsheltered,  and  forlorn  at  best, 
Who  can  portray  the  suffering  of  those  poor 
Dumb  beasts  when  comes  the  cruel,  numbing 

cold, — 

Fierce  offspring  of  dark  clouds  that  ride  upon 
The    stinging    blast,     and    cutting,     blinding 

sleet, — 

The  fearful  blizzard,  reigning  in  its  wrath? 
Before  its  terrors,  man,  unsheltered,  soon 
Would  cease  to  fight  for  life.     Not  often,  but 
Unheralded  and  unexpected,  come 
These  dreaded  storms.     The  prairie  dwellers 

see 
The  warm,   bright,   spring-like  morn,   in  one 

short  hour, 
Give  place  to  warring  elements  surcharged 


PUBLIC    SCHOOL   BUILDINGS. 

'The  prairie  town,  long  since  a  city  named, 
Displays  with   pride  its  churches   and  its   schools. "--Page  103. 


APRAIRIEIDYL  89 

With  Arctic  cold.     With  hurrying  steps  the 

men 

Protect  the  animals  belonging  to 
The  place,  and  snugly  house  and  feed  in  barns, 
That  look  like  long,  low  stacks,  so  deeply  are 
Their  frames  with  straw  and  hay  o'er  spread. 

Despite 

Their  care,  the  weaklings  of  the  herd  succumb, 
And  morning  finds  them  stiff  and  cold.     The 

gloom 

Upon  the  world  without,  makes  greater  seem 
The  comforts  of  the  lonely  prairie  home, 
Where  warmth  and  cheer  await  the  wanderer. 
The  fires  well  piled  with  coal  the  prairie  mines 
Afford,  send  forth  unwonted,  welcome  glow. 
The  stormy  darkness  early  settles  down, 
And  adds  long  hours  to  the  bitter  night. 
The    light    of    lanterns    shining    through    the 

gloom, 

The  footsteps  creaking  in  the  snow,  announce 
The  coming  of  the  busy  men,  whose  work 
Of  being  merciful  to  beasts  is  for 
The  moment  o'er.    Their  beards,  icicled,  show 
The  rigors  of  the  night.    The  shed-like  room 
Which  held  the  ranchman's  homestead  claim, 

before 


90  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

A  house  was  joined  to  it,  receives  a  shower 
Of    snow    from    stamping    feet    and    shaken 

coats, — 

While  joke  and  laughter  show  how  sturdily 
A  man  can  buffet  storms  when  waits  for  him 
The  joy  and  comfort  of  a  home.     Served  hot 
And  steaming,  is  the  evening  meal. 
Refreshed  and  rested,  'round  the  fire  they  sit 
Comparing  incidents  of  Western  life. 

The  table  cleared,  with    anxious    thought  of 

one, — 

A  lonely  horseman,  whom  at  early  morn 
She  saw  pass  through  the  gate,  and  out  upon 
The  almost  houseless  plains,  the  mother  puts 
Her  lamp  upon  the  window  seat,  where  it 
May  feebly  show  against  the  storm,  that  here 
A  habitation  stands.     The  children  nod 
Their  sleepy  heads,  and  soon  are  tucked  away 
In  slumber  sweet.     Her  needle,  Margaret 
Employs,  while  listening  to  the  stories  new 
And  full  of  interest  to  one,  who  like 
Herself  must  learn  to  live  and  make  a  home 
Amid  conditions  never  met  before. 

A  stranger  shares  her  hospitality 

This  night ; — a  mountaineer,  who  luckily 


APRAIRIEIDYL  QI 

Arrived  a  little  earlier  than  the  storm, 
With  load  of  cedar  poles  he  cut  on  some 
Steep  mountain  side  full  forty  miles  away, 
To  fill  her  husband's  order.    Pleased  to  find 
An  interested  audience,  he  tells 
In  quaint,  terse  terms,    of   times   before    the 

plains 
Were  crossed  by  coaches  drawn  by  steam,  when 

he, 

A  freighter,  and  a  guide  to  emigrants, 
Drove  dull,  slow  oxen,  weary  days  across 
The  barren  wilds.    But  little  questioning 
It  needs  to  start  his  oft-told  tales.    One  asks 
About  the  buffalo,  that  roamed  the  plains 
In  vast  uncounted  herds,  a  few  short  years 
Before,  ere  they  were  slaughtered  solely  for 
Their  shaggy  coats. 

"Many's  the  time  I've  stopped 
My  team  to  let  a  herd  of  buffalo 
Go  past,"  the  freighter  said.    "They  won't  turn 

off 

Their  path  to  trouble  ye ;  ye  never  saw 
No  better  critters  'bout  that  thing, — but  if 
Ye' re  in  their  way,  they'll  run  right  over  ye. 
They    allus    run    with    heads    to   ground,    ye 

know, — 


92  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

Don't  seem  to  see  ye're  there.    One  time  when  I 
Was  going  with  a  train  to  'Frisco,  all 
They  did  was  jest  to  smash  a  feller's  team ; 
I  told  the  eejit  that  he'd  better  wait ; 
No !    He  was  mad  because  we  stopped  the  train 
To  let  them  pass ;  so  he  turned  off  the  trail 
And  started  on,  a  grumblin'  to  hisself, 
'Won't  get  nowhere,  a  stoppin'  all  the  time !' 
'Wall !     What's  ten  minutes  when  we've  got  a 

road 

A  thousand  miles  to  go,'  sez  I,  'and  all 
The  summer  time  ahead  of  ye?    Ye'd  best 
Jest  wait  a  bit!    Them  buffalo  has  ben 
Hard  chased  by  Indjins !    Don't  you  see  they're 

cross  ?' 

It  want  no  use  to  talk  to  sich  a  fool ; 
He  kept  right  on,  and  they  ran  over  him ; 
We    saw    him    hoppin'    'round    amongst    the 

herd,— 

They  hustled  him  about  and  carried  him 
A  rod  or  more ;  he  lost  all  but  one  ox ; 
The  wonder  was  that  he  got  out  alive 
Hisself.     His  blankets  was  stove  full  of  holes ; 
Two  sacks  of  flour  was  tracked  about  the  plains. 
Suthin'  to  eat  ?    He  had  a  little  cash, 
And  bought  his  grub  of  some  '  the  rest  of  us, 


APRAIRIEIDYL  93 

And  one  man  took  his  ox,  and  carted  him 
The  rest'  the  way  for  it. 

Seen  Indjins? 

Piles 

Of  'em.  They'd  beg  and  steal  of  us  while  we 
Was  going  through  their  territory.  Squaws 
Would  beg  for  biscuit;  allus  seemed  to  think 
A  sight  o'  biscuit;  used  to  beg  and  say, 
Tapoose  heap  sick.'  One  day  we  got  cor 
ralled 

By  'em;  them  Indjins  was  as  thick  as  weeds. 
Their  braves  was  on  the  warpath  and  they  had 
The  guns  with  them.     The  women,  children, 

and  old  men 

They  left  behind  was  most  a  starved  to  death ; 
They  begged  us  hard  to  kill  a  buffalo 
For  them  to  eat ;  one  feller  took  his  gun, — 
It  was  a  long  range  rifle, — and  he  soon 
Brought  down  a  buffalo;  you  should  have  seen 
Them  Indjins  eat;  by  morning  'twas  all  gone, 
And  they  stood  'round  a  sucking  at  the  bones. 

Asthmy?    I  never  seed  a  soul  but  what 
Got  help  for  that  a  comin'  here ;  but  folks 
That  has  consumption — is  most  gone — it  kills 
To  come  here  in  the  cars ;  I  knowed  they  used 


94  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

To  cure  afore  the  cars  was  here,  but  now, 
They  gets  into  this  altitude  too  quick. 
One  time  I  took  a  woman  'cross  the  plains 
That  was  so  nigh  used  up  we  had  to  lift 
Her  in  and  out  the  wagon,  take  her  to 
The  houses  nights,  jest  like  a  baby,  long 
As  houses  could  be  found,  but  'fore  we  got 
Half  way  to  'Frisco,  she  would  make  her  brags 
That  she  could  walk  as  far  as  we  could  drive 
Our  oxen  in  a  day, — and  she  could  do 
It,  too. 

What  did  we  burn  to  cook  our  meals  ? 
Why!  buffalo  chips.     I  used  to  take  a  sack 
And  go  way  out  along  the  trail,  and  fill 
It  'gainst  the  time  we'd  camp;  I  used  to  dig 
A  hole  and  make  my  fire  in  it  and  set 
My  kettles  in  the  hole;  I  kivered  'em 
With  iron  lids  and  made  a  fire  on  the  lids 
And  heat  'em  top  and  bottom  too;  and  that's 
The  way  I  baked   my   bread,    and   meat   and 

beans. 
Of  course  we  baked,  when  we  was  camped  o' 

nights; 

We  boiled  and  fried  at  any  camping  place. 
Most  creeks  has  wood  a  growin'  on  the  banks, 
And  nat'rully  we  burned  it  when  we  camped 


APRAIRIEIDYL  95 

Near  by, — but  creeks  want  allus  near  our  camp 
To  give  us  wood  nor  water,  so  we  took 
A  cask  of  water  and  some  kindlin'  right 
Along  with  us. 

Ye  see,  folks  hadn't  dug 
No  wells  nor  mines  for  us,  tho'  prairie  dogs 
Has  allus  ben  prospectin'  for  the  coal 
And  bringin'  little  chunks  of  it  above 
The  ground  sometimes,  to  scatter  'round  their 

holes 
And  show  folks  coal  is  there." 

Around  the  house 

The  cold  wind  shrieks,  as  if  in  anger  that 
It  cannot  enter  and  control  the  warm 
And  cosy  room,  and  drive  its  genial,  but 
Unconquered  foe  therefrom.     The  talkative 
Old  plainsman    shakes    the    ashes    from    his 

pipe  — 

An  act  that  breaks  the  circle  'round  the  fire. 
A  good-night  journey  to    the    snow-banked 

barns 

Assures  their  owner  that  his  animals 
Are  snug  as  he  can  make  them  in  the  storm. 

Unbroken  sleep  the  household  cannot  know 
This  dismal  night,  for  loud  above  the  wind, 


p6  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

As  wears  the  night    away,    there    comes    the 

sound 

Of  ceaseless  footfalls,  creaking  in  the  snow, 
As  countless  suffering  cattle  march  in  ranks, — 
A  bovine  army, — lowing,  bellowing, 
With  hunger,  weariness  and  cold. 

Before 

The  icy  blast,  that  drives  them  on  and  on, 
They  come  from  their  old  feeding  ground  until 
The  straggling,  scattered  numbers  grow  into 
A  solid  column,  stretching  far.    The  light 
Of  morning  shows  them  marching,  marching 

still; 

Still  lowing,  bellowing,  and  tramping  on 
And  on,  with  heads  held  low,    and    swaying 

forms, — 

A  moving  mass  of  horns  and  furry  backs, — 
A  moving  mass  of  misery  and  pain. 
The  river  reached,  in  their  despair,  some  plunge 
Into  its  icy  depths  to  die  perhaps, 
Perhaps  to  cross  to  isles,  or  farther  bank ; 
Some  shrinking  from  its  iciness,  pursue 
Its  winding  way  a  while,  then  turn  to  join 
The  multitude, — wind  driven — and  to  swell 
Their  numbers  as  they  pass  again  adown 


e 

•    5 


APRAIRIEIDYL  97 

The  prairie  fence  and  near  the  house  where 

they 

Who  see  and  know  their  wretchedness,  cannot 
Abate  it  in  the  least.     And  so  they  tramp, 
And  march,  and  bellow,  till  the  storm  winds 

cease. 

An  hour  or  two  before  night's  shadows  fall, — 
The  fury  of  the  storm  has  lessened, — comes 
A  horse  and  rider  to  the  door, — the  two 
Who  passed  the  gate  ere  yet  the  storm  began. 
Rejoiced  to  see  the  stranger  safe,  both  man 
And  beast  are  given  food  and  shelter ;  while 
He  breaks  his  long  cold  fast,  the  rider  tells 
How  having  placed  two  blankets  underneath 
His  saddle  it  was  possible  for  him 
To  wrap  himself  in  one,  or  else  he  must 
Have  frozen  ere  he  reached  the  empty  shack 
Upon  the  "Seven  Cross"  cattle  ranch,  which 

men 

Inhabit  now  and  then,  and  leave  with  door 
Unlocked,  and  oftentimes  with  food  supplies, — 
A  common  custom  on  the  Western  plains, — 
To  make  a  stopping  place  for  cattlemen, 
Or  cowboys  hunting  "mavericks"  or  "strays," 
Or  else  to  meet  the  wants  of  men  in  straits 


98  PEN      PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

Like  his.    No  food  was  there,  but  thankful  for 
A  fire,  he  took  his  faithful  steed  inside 
The  shack,  fed  him  the  scanty  provender 
He  found,  and  waited  for  the  night  to  pass. 

At  last,  the  fury  of  the  storm  is  spent; 
The  cheering  sun  dispels  the  bitter  cold ; 
Communication  opens  with  the  world ; 
A  messenger  to  town,  returns  with  mail, — 
With  letters  long  delayed,  and  papers  more 
Than  welcome  since  the  storm  imprisonment. 
Word  also  comes  of  how  the  people  fared ; 
Of  men  confused  and  blinded  by  the  storm, 
Who  lost  their  way  when  near  the  homes  they 

sought ; 

Of  little  children  on  their  way  from  school, — 
Who  said  their  prayers  and  laid  them  down  to 

sleep 
Till  morning  light  should  show  their  homes 

to  them, — 

Found  by  the  people  seeking  them,  and  saved 
As  by  a  miracle. 

The  sunlight  falls 

Upon  the  whitened  surface  of  the  plains 
With  blinding  brightness.    All  around  the  poor 
Dumb  cattle  starving  stand.    Unlike  the  horse, 


A       PRAIRIE      IDYL  99 

Who  paws  the  snow  aside  to  find  the  grass 
Beneath, — they  know  no  way  to  reach  the  food 
They  need.     In  many  places  through  the  fence 
They  break,  and  feed  upon  the  farmers'  stacks, 
Or  roam  the  village  streets, — a  menace  to 
Unmounted  men, — until  the  cowboys  come 
And  with  their  wiry  ponies  drive  them  back 
Among  the  sheltering  bluffs  from  whence  they 
came. 

THE     ROUND-UP 

The  lovely  days  of  spring  have  clothed    the 

plains 
With  fresh,  sweet  grass,  and  spread  a  welcome 

feast 

Before  the  wandering  herds.    The  cattlemen 
Prepare  to  "round"  their  creatures  "up,"  and 

learn 

The  loss  or  profit  of  the  year.  For  weeks, 
The  country  to  be  traversed,  and  the  place 
To  meet  each  day  with  gathered  herds,  has 

been 

Decided  on,  and  advertised,  that  all 
The  owners  with  their  men  may  gather  wiiere 


IOO  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

Their    cattle    range,    and  do    their    share    of 

work, — 
And  claim  and  brand    their    property.     One 

man, — 

A  chosen  Captain, — plans  and  orders  all. 
From  every  side  they  come  with  ponies  fleet 
Of  foot,  and  trained  to  hold  the  struggling 

beasts 
When  rider's  ropes  have  checked  their  utmost 

flight; 

With  cowboys  skilled  in  throwing  lariats, 
And  reading  brands  obscure,  or  tampered  with ; 
With  men  to  cook,  and  drive  the  wagons  filled 
With  blankets  and  with  food  supplies  to  each 
Day's  camping  place;  with    irons    that    shall 

brand 

The  owner's  undisputed  claim  upon 
The  luckless  calf.     Prepared  to  live  upon 
The  plains    for  weeks, — to    sleep    upon    the 

ground 

In  blankets  wrapped,  these  hardy  plainsmen  go 
Far  to  the  eastern  limit  of  the  range 
Their  cattle  feed  upon,  and  "round  them  up" 
By  sending  riders  on  a  circuit  wide, 
To  gather  every  animal  that  shows 
A  brand  belonging  to  the  men  for  whom 


A      PR  AlR'lfc  '  ID  YL  101 

They  work.    A  camping  place  Is 'chosen  where 
They  wish  to  have  the  first  day's  round-up 

brought, 

And  there  the  cook  is  found,  prepared  to  feed 
The  hungry  men. 

The  first  red  streak  of  dawn 
Is  signal  for  the  start,  and  silently 
The  horsemen  vanish  on  their  tiring  quest, 
Each,  with  his  ground  to  cover,  pointed  out. 
The  river  flows  upon  the  south, — some  search 
Its  banks ;  another  party  follow  up 
A  tributary  stream,  and  others  scour 
The  distant  bluffs,  and  all  the  land  between. 
Well  past  the  hour  of  noon,  the  cowboys  with 
The  herd  appear,  and  men  detailed  for  their 
Relief,  ride  out  to  guard  the  band,  while  they 
Who  gathered  them,  refresh  the  inner  man. 

Again,  a  mammoth  stage,  and  actors  skilled. 
Around  a  smouldering  fire  a  group  of  men 
Are  heating  irons,  each  of  which  shall  sear 
Upon  the  owner's  living  property, 
Its  quaint  device.      The    mounted    cowboys, 

spurred, 

With  lariats  in  hand,  dash  in  among 
The  herd,  and  singling  out  the  animals 


102  PEN     PICTURED     OF     THE     PLAINS 


They   ^ant,-  —  give  chase.     The  race  is  short. 

The  rope, 

Well  thrown,    soon  stops   a   creature's   flight. 

Half  dragged, 

Half  running,  it  is  quickly  taken  where 
The  branders  wait  to  do  their  work.    Each  man 
Keeps  tally  of  the  calves  he  brands,  and  so 
The  census  of  the  bovine  family 
That  roams  the  plains,  is  taken.     Animals 
No  longer  wanted,  are  turned  back  upon 
The  range  from  whence  they  came;  those  held 

as  beeves, 

Or  held  to  drive  upon  some  other  range, 
Must  be  well  guarded,  day  and  night,  and  men 
Take  turns  at  that.     With  little  change  the 

work 
Goes  on  from    day    to  day.     Each    camping 

place 

Is  chosen  for  the  chance  it  furnishes 
Of  water  for  the  men  and  animals 
And  well  for  them  if  it  may  be  a  clear 
And  flowing  stream.     This  hard  exciting  life 
Is  lived,  until  the  prairies  have  been  scoured 
From  Julesburg  to  the  mountain  towns,  and 

well 


A      PRAIRIE      I  D  \  L  103 

Across  Wyoming's  line.     Disbanded  then, 
The  round-up  waits  another  call. 

IN     LATER     TIMES 

The  years, 

Each  coming  with  its  joys  and  sorrows  filled, 
Each  leaving  evidence  of  human  skill 
And  workmanship,  have  wrought  vast  changes 

on 

The  desert  land,  since  first  the  little  band 
Of  pioneers  essayed  to  colonize, 
And  rear  upon  a  platform  sacred  to 
High  moral  purposes  and  temperance, 
The  homes  wherein  their  children  might  imbibe 
The  principles  they  most  desired  for  them. 

Adown  a  lovely  valley,  wonderful 

For  its  fertility,  and  reclaimed  from 

Arid  land  by  generous  giving  of  its  stream, 

The  weakened  Poudre  flows.     The  well-tilled 

farms, 

With  cosy  homes  supplied  with  every  need, 
With  fields  upholding  crops  luxuriant 
And  promising,  present  a  pleasing  scene. 

The  prairie  town,  long  since  a  city  named, 
Displays  with  pride  its  churches  and  its  schools, 


104  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

Its  fair  and  happy  homes,  its  well  laid  streets, 
Its  merchants  blocks,  unmarred  by  foul  saloons. 

From  a  slight  eminence  there  smiles  upon 
The  tree-embowered  homes,  those  stately  halls 
Of  learning,  which  receive  the  youth  from  far 
And  near,  and  send  them  forth  to  graft  upon 
The  budding  mind,  their  teaching  and  their 
thought. 

The  house,  commodious  and  well  preserved, 
That  "Father  Meeker"  built  in  early  days, 
Still  stands,  a  tribute  to  his  confidence 
In  all  the  glowing  prophecies  he  made 
Concerning  Greeley's  future  destiny. 
The  little  trees  he  planted,  shade  it  well ; 
The  mountain  firs,  now  tall  and  stately,  stand 
Like  sentinels  around  this  home  where  dwells 
The  aged  widow,  who  despite  her  wound 
And  weakness,  has  survived  the  horrors  of 
The  massacre  and  dread  captivity, — 
Survived  the  daughter  who  with  her  endured 
So  bravely,  hardship,  agony  and  grief. 

The  wild  rich  country  which  the  Utes  had  held, 
Was  taken  from  them  when  they  massacred 
So  mercilessly  friends,  to  them  so  true. 


APRAIRIEIDYL  10$ 

The  sacrifice  the  Agent  felt  must  be 

Before  the  Utes  would  go, — would  leave  their 

land 

For  whites  to  file  upon,  was  not  alone 
For  him;  seven  brave  young  lives  with  his, 

went  out; 

This  was  the  cruel  sacrifice  which  sent 
The  Utes  still  farther  west,  and  opened  up 
The  mountain  country's  vast  and  untold  wealth 
To  Colorado. 

Shimmering  lakes  now  dot 
The  land ;  the  artificial  lakes  that  man 
Has  made;  the  needed  reservoirs  to  aid 
In  irrigation  schemes. 

Across  the  plains, 
Connecting  house  with  house,  are  stretched  the 

wires 

JE,  olus  loves  to  play  upon,  the  wires 
Annihilating  loneliness  and  space 
By  bringing  spoken  messages  from  far. 

What  once  was  "range"  the  settlers  cultivate, 
And  wild  uncared-for  herds  are  driven  back 
To  ranges  people  have  not  limited. 


106  PEN      PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

Beyond  the  "fence"  which  long  ago  gave  up 
Its  proud  distinction, — homes  are  reared,  and 

one 

May  read  prosperity's  ascending  steps 
On  many  a  well  tilled  farm,  by  noting  how 
The  habitations,  primitive  and  small, 
Gave  place  to  dwellings  more  commodious; — 
The  dugout  of  the  bachelor,  the  cot 
To  which  he  brought  his  bride,  and  the  fine 

house 
Which  marks  their  greater  means  and  need  of 

room. 

Around  the  home  are  trees,  and  flowers,  and 

vines, 

And  finding  covert  to  their  taste,  the  birds 
Have  come, — the  dear  sweet  song  birds  that  we 

love. 
The  woodbine-covered  porch,   song  sparrows 

nest 

Upon;  the  robin  and  woodpecker  feast 
Where  hang  its  purple  berries,  and  the  trees 
Entice  full  many  a  welcome  songster  to 
Their  shade,  that  dearly  loves  to  bathe  and 

preen 


A      PRAIRIE      IDYL  107 

Where  flows  the  sparkling,  grass-edged  cur 
rent  at 
Their  roots. 

The  scene  one  looks  upon  to-day, 
Is  not  the  old  monotony  of  land 
And  sky.     The  signs  of  labor  and  of  thrift 
Are  everywhere,  and  stretching  far  beneath 
The  eye,  the  plains  like  one  vast  chessboard 

seem, — 
Its  squares  marked  off  by  differing  shades  of 

green, 

Or  golden  blocks,  where  rank  sunflowers  tint 
The  view. 

The  pioneers  who  bore  the  toil 
And  hardships  of  those  early  days,  know, — 

more 

Than  he  who  later  comes, — the  worth  of  all 
They  now  enjoy.     They  love  to  meet  and  talk 
The  old  times  o'er,  while  ringing  laughter  tells 
How  clearly  now  they  see  the  comic  side 
To  much  that  then  occurred, — full  thirty  years 
Ago.    The  grandeur  of  the  mountains  and 
The  plains  grows  on  beholders  day  by  day, — 
The  beauty  of  these  "lifted  lands."    The  joy 
Of  Colorado's  health-reviving  air, 


108  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

Her  azure  skies,  her  cheerful  days,  her  cool 
And  restful  nights,  the  full  and  varied  yield 
She  harvests  from  her  irrigated  lands, 
Her  merry  children,  and  her  firesides  dear, 
Cause  many  a  glad  and  thankful  heart  to  say 
With  pride    and  full    contentment,  "THIS  is 
HOME." 


THE      YUCCA  ICQ 


THE     YUCCA. 

Like  armored  sentinel  the  Yucca  stands, 
As  if  to  guard  its  sun-burned,  dreary  lands. 

Its  leaves,  like  bayonets,  unyielding-  rise, 
'Neath  Winter's  cold,  and  Summer's  scorching 
skies. 

It  falters  not  for  lack  of  dew  or  rain, 
But  loves  the  rugged  bluff,   the  wind-swept 
plain. 

Alone,  or  grouped,  where  e'er  is  cast  its  lot, 
Unsocial,  grim,  and  stern,  it  guards  the  spot. 

Beneath  its  bristling  armor  hides  away, — 
Like  noble  warrior,  ruled  by  Duty's  sway, — 

A  heart  of  tender  beauty.    When  comes  June, 
With  youth,  and  love,  and  gladness  all  in  tune, 

The  Yucca's  bells,  abundant,  creamy,  fair, 
Unfold,  and  fling  their  fragrance  on  the  air. 


110  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 


PRAIRIE    DOG    TOWN. 

Out  on  the  prairies  so  boundless  and  wide, 
This  way,  or  that  way,  or  which  way  we  ride, 
Come  we  to  settlements  lying  around, 
Where  many  settlers  together  are  found 
In  their  snug  houses,  deep  under  the  ground, 
Every  house  guarded  about  by  a  mound. 

Lively,  and  chirping,  and  frisky  and  brown, — 
Come  see  the  settlers  of  Prairie  Dog  Town ; 
Dark  are  their  homes  where  they  hide,  when 

they  may, — 

Dearly  they  love  the  warm  light  of  the  day ; 
Out  in  the  sunshine  they  visit  and  play ; 
Hither  and  thither  to  neighbors  they  stray. 

Deep  are  their  holes,  "Down  to  water,"  't  is 

said, — 

Out  from  the  nearest  one  pops  a  brown  head ; 
See  him  stand  up  like  an  image  and  wait, — 
Maybe  he  listens  for  one  who  is  late, 
Maybe  he  lingers  to  welcome  his  mate, — 
Some  pretty  Prairie  Dog  "Down  by  the  gate." 


PRAIRIE     DOG     TOWN  III 

Living  in  colonies  all  of  their  days, 
Social,  and  pretty,  and  cute  are  their  ways, — 
Out  of  his  hole  like  a  clumsy  old  clown, 
Shaking  his  tail,  with  a  chirp  he  is  down ; 
Lively  and  chirping,  and  frisky  and  brown, — 
These  are  the  settlers  of  Prairie  Dog  Town. 


112  PEN     PICTURES     OF.   THE     PLAINS 


THE       MOUNTAIN       STREAM 

The  stream  down  rocky  canyons  leaps, 
And  in  its  channel  onward  sweeps, 
Till  held  and  barred,  it  turns  its  way, 
Where  man's  own  power  and  skill  may  say, 
And  unto  gardens,  farms  and  fields, 
The  treasure  of  its  own  self  yields. 

And  now  it  sings  through  countless  ditches ; 
Upspring  bright  flowers,  like  winsome  witches, 
And  nod  at  their  own  mirrored  ranks, 
Reflected  from  the  verdant  banks; 
Its  busy  way,  where  e'er  it  goes, 
The  gladdened  face  of  nature  shows. 

Like  hosts  drawn  up  in  war's  array, 
The  cacti  long  had  held  the  way; 
Their  thorns  like  bayonets  pierced  the  air, 
Till  water  came  and  conquered  there, 
And  changed  the  desert,  lone  and  drear, 
To  homes  and  gardens,  full  of  cheer. 


o    OT 

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A      MAY-TIME      PICTURE  113 


A    MAY-TIME    PICTURE. 

From  cushions  of  crimson  the  sun  arose,  beam 
ing 

With  gladness  and  light  on  the  beautiful 
earth ; 

She    waved    her    green    banners    all    daintily 

gleaming 

With  the  buds  and  the  flowers  to  which  May- 
time  gives  birth. 

The  snow-covered  peaks  of  the  mountains  re 
flected 

The  rainbow-hued  tints    which    the    sunlight 
found  there, 

And  into  the  picture  a  beauty  projected, 
As  bright  and  as  grand  as  the  morning  was 
fair. 

Oh,    beautiful    May-time!     Oh,  crimson-hued 

morning ! 
What    poet,     or    painter,     can    pencil     thy 

charms  ? 

The  earth  like  a  maiden  for  bridal  adorning, 
The  sun  like  the  lover  who  woes  to  his  arms. 


114  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

The     flower-dotted    prairie,     the    glimmering 

river, 
The  deep  azure  sky  and  the  sun's  golden 

light, 
The  lovely  green  trees  with  their  leaves  all 

a-quiver, 

And  the  glittering  mountains,  so  stately  and 
white. 

But  over  the  brightness  a  shadow  is  stealing; 

The  tops  of  the  mountains  are  hidden  in  haze 

And  soon  o'er  the  valley,  like  chariots  wheeling, 

The  wind-wafted  storm-clouds  obscure  the 

sun's  rays. 

We  sigh  that  the  beauty  and  gladness  are  fad 
ing; 
We  count  not  the  blessings  the  shadows  may 

bear; 

Forget  that  the  Power  directing  the  shading, 
May  hold  for  our  winning  the  crown  victors 
wear. 

Still  dark  grow  the  heavens,  and  low  clouds 

hang  o'er  us ; 

When  lo,  what  a  happy  unlooked-for  sur 
prise  ! 


A      MAY-TIME      PICTURE  115 

All,  all  of  the  beauties  of  May-time  before  us, 
Receive  new  enchantment,  direct  from  the 

skies. 
For  out  of  the  gloom  and    the    somberness 

sailing, 
As  hopes,  pure  and  bright,  from  our  sorrows 

are  born, 
To  drape  the  fair  earth  with  a    soft    bridal 

veiling, 

The  white,   fleecy   snow-flakes,   the  picture 
adorn. 

Upon  the  green  branches,  so  gracefully  cluster 
ing, 

So  lovingly  kissed  the  velvety  grass; 
And  now  to  the  banks  of  the  river-bed  muster 
ing, 
And  throwing  bright  gleams  to  the  waters 

that  pass; 
As  pure  as  the  flowers  whose  leaves  they  are 

hiding, 

As  fair  as  the  loveliest  blossoms  of  May, 
So  frail  in  their  beauty,  and  never  abiding, 
How  soon  like  the  mists,  they  will  vanish 
away. 


Il6  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

The  cloud  passes  by,  and  the  sun's  thrilling 

kisses, 

Descend  to  the  gladdened  and  jubilant  earth, 
And    whispers    of  beauty,    contentment    and 

blisses, 
Are  caught  in  the  winged  warbler's  singing 

and  mirth. 

Oh,  beautiful  May-time,  and  beautiful  morn 
ing,— 
The  morn  of  the  day,  and  the  morn  of  the 

year,— 

How  full  and  complete  in  their  lovely  adorn 
ing, 

The  lights  and  the  shadows  have  made  thee 
appear. 


SONGS      FOR      THE      MONTHS  117 

SONGS    FOR    THE    MONTHS. 

JANUARY 

January,  cold  and  bright, 

Comes  with  smiles  to  view  us ; 
As  the  old  year  fades  from  sight, 
With  a  radiant,  hopeful  light, 

Brings  the  new  year  to  us. 

Sigh  we  for  the  seasons  gone  ? 

Better  ones  may  meet  us; 
Hopes  the  brightest,  lead  us  on, 
And  some  blessed,  happy  morn, 

Glad  fruition  greet  us. 

FEBRUARY 

February,  keen  and  cold; 

Sun  of  dazzling  brightness ; 
Naked  prairies,  brown  and  old, 
Towering  mountain  peaks  that  hold 

High  their  frigid  whiteness. 

February's  lovely  skies, 

Blue  as  those  of  summer ; 
Where  the  chatty  blackbird  flies, 
And  the  jay's  discordant  cries, 

Greet  the  strolling  comer. 


Il8  PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

MARCH 

March,  a  merry,  boisterous  chap, 
'Round  the  corners  whistling; 
Tries  the  window  with  a  rap, 
Makes  the  schoolboy  chase  his  cap, 
Sets  the  straw  stack  bristling; 

Fills  the  air  with  whirling  snow, 

Sends  the  sleet  storm,  stinging ; 
Scatters  clouds  that  hover  low, 
Wakes  the  meadow  lark,  and  so 
Fills  the  air  with  singing. 

APRIL 

April  is  a  fickle  maid, 

Full  of  light  coquetting; 
O'er  her  face  she  draws  a  shade, 
And  with  tears  her  part  is  played, 

Merriment  forgetting. 

Now  she  casts  her  clouds  aside, 
Beaming  bright  with  blisses ; 

Smiles  she  has  no  wish  to  hide, 

Waken  lilies  far  and  wide, 
As  their  lips  she  kisses. 


SONGS      FOR      THE      MONTHS 
MA  Y 

May,  a  blithesome,  bonnie  lass, 

With  a  rare  completeness, 
Dots  with  flowers  the  springing  grass, 
Bids  the  orchard's  petaled  mass, 
'  Fill  the  air  with  sweetness. 

Spreads  a  feast  for  lowing  herds ; 

Waves  the  green  leaf  banners ; 
Till  her  morning  choir  of  birds, 
Sing  their  anthems  without  words, 

With  their  gayest  manners. 

JUNE 

June,  a  fairy  maiden,  sings 

Over  hill  and  valley; 
Wealth  of  flowers  bright,  she  brings, 
And  the  sweetest,  dearest  things, 

All  around  her  rally. 

Yucca's  creamy,  drooping  bells, 
Deck  the  wand  she  carries ; 
Tinted  fields,  and  honeyed  cells, — 
Rippling  streams,  and  shaded  dells, — 
There,  she  laughing,  tarries. 


120 


PEN     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 


JULY 

Elder  sister  fair,  of  June; 

More  sedate,  less  charming; 
Changing  all  her  merry  tune 
To  a  droning,  soothing  croon, 

Life  and  laughter  calming. 

Floral  beauties,  here  and  there, 
Ragged  grown,  and  seedy; 

Brilliant  new  ones  everywhere, 

Flowers  that  bloom  in  gardens  fair, 
Gracing  acres  weedy. 

A UGUST 

Burning  skies  and  scorching  sands, 
Mountain  peaks,  snow-whitened ; 
And  the  arid,  desert  lands, 
By  the  faithful  work  of  hands, 
Marvelously  brightened. 

Wondrous  prairies,  bounty  crowned, 

By  the  generous  river ; 
Purpling,  whitening  fields  abound,— 
Lights  and  shadows,  all  around,  — 

Colors  all  a-quiver. 


SONGS      FOR      THE      MONTHS  121 

SEPTEMBER 

Roadside  edged  with  purple  bloom, 
Brown-eyed  sunflowers  nod  there, 
And  the  weed-grown  thicket's  gloom, 
Brightened  by  the  feathery  plume, 
Of  the  golden  rod  there. 

Curving  to  the  breeze  that  steals,— 

Like  a  purple  ocean, — 
Once  again  alfalfa  yields 
Wealth  of  honeyed  fragrance, — fields 

Full  of  billowy  motion. 

OCTOBER 

Hamlet  like,  on  every  side, 

Stacks  immense,  are  clustered; 
Stubble  stretching  far  and  wide, 
Whence  the  beauty,  wealth  and  pride, 
Ruthlessly  was  mustered. 

From  the  wintry  peaks  of  snow, 

Falls  the  frost  breath  freezing; 
Early,  summer's  treasures  go, 
With  their  beauty  and  their  glow, 
And  their  power  of  pleasing. 


122  PEX     PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 

NOVEMBER 

Foliage  falling  brown  and  sere. 

Indian  summer  weather 
Crowns  the  waning  of  the  year ; 
In  the  sunshine,  warm  and  clear. 

All  things  jay  together. 

Feathered  gleaners  homeward  fly 
To  their  winter  quarters; 

Blue  crows  to  the  village  hie; 

Blackbirds  flit,  and  chirp,  and  cry. 
By  the  flowing  waters. 

DECEMBER 

O'er  the  prairies  sparkling  bright 
With  their  frost  adornings. 

Flashing  from  the  mountains  white. 

Full  of  rainbow-tinted  light, 
Break  December  mornings. 

Land  of  color!     Sunny  skies! 

Depth  of  blue,  unclouded; 
Checkered  plains,  and  rocks  that  rise. 
Tinted  bright  with  varied  dyes. — 

Sleeping,  snow-enshrouded. 


LONG'S      PEAK  123 


LONG'S    PEAK 

Grand,  mighty  monument  of  ages  past. 

Where   Nature  stores   her   treasures   mani 
fold.— 

Her  wonders,  undivinable,  untold, — 
How  beautiful,  mysterious  and  vast. 
The  mold  in  which  thy  massive  form  is  cast 

With  Earth's  foundation,  thou  wast  formed 
of  old, 

A  towering  giant,  firm,  and  strong  and  bold. 
Unchangeable,  and  silent  to  the  last. 

A    land-mark   is  thy   glistening   head,    snow- 
crowned. 

Held  upward  to  the  blue,  o'er  reaching  sky ; 

The  sweetest  flowers  upon  thy  bosom  lie; 

With  vines  and  rocks  thy  steadfast  breast  is 

bound ; 

With  forest  trees,  thy  waist  is  girded  'round. 
And  streamlets  grow  to  torrents  rushing  by. 


124  PEN      PICTURES     OF     THE     PLAINS 


A    SUNSET   SCENE. 

The  mountains  stretch  along  the  western  sky, 

A  scalloped  cloud,  a  bank  of  darkest  blue ; 

Their  peaks  have  hid  the  setting  sun  from 

view; 

Upon  the  earth,  the  lengthened  shadows  lie ; 
The  young  moon  sails  her  silvery  crescent  nigh, 

And   Venus  comes,   to  tryst  with   twilight 
true. 

Above  the  summits,  clouds  of  gorgeous  hue, 
Have  draped  their  sunset-tinted  canopy. 

The  King   of    Day   withdraws    his    lingering 

beams ; 

From  out  the  sky  the  darkening  colors  fade ; 
A  brooding  quiet,  soft  and  restful  seems 
To  gently  fall,  as  falls  the  evening  shade ; 
The  heavens  with  twinkling,  watching  stars 

are  laid, 

And    Slumber  leads    the    world    to    peaceful 
dreams. 


A      WINTER      MORNING  125 


A     WINTER     MORNING. 

White  gleams  the  earth,  o'erlaid  with  Winter's 

snows ; 
Sharp  stings  the  air,    frost-crystalled,   still 

and  clear ; 

Far  distant  objects,  not  so  far  appear ; 
Athwart  the  East,  Aurora  crimson  glows ; 
Across  the  sky  she  lightly,  deftly  throws, 
To  western   mountain   peaks  that  proudly 

rear, 
Her    bright     "Good     Morning,"    till,    her 

beauty's  peer 
They  stand,  reflecting  amethyst  and  rose. 


126  PEN     PICTURES     OF      THE     PLAINS 


VICTORY. 

Afar,  above  the  vast,  brown,  rolling  plains, 
The  mountains  rear  their  heads,  serene  and 

grand, 
A  tower  of  strength  and  beauty  in  the  land. 

There,  crowned  with  snow  so  pure,  all  regal 
reigns 

The  lofty  peak  which  greatest  height  attains; 
Fair  sister  peaks  appear  on  every  hand, 
Like  shrouded,  ghostly  sentinels  they  stand, 

Defying  him,  who  yon  proud  summit  gains. 

He  who  has  striven,  conquered,  all  Life's  way, 
Like  him  who  looks  on  peaks  and  plains 

below, — 
Stands,  touched  by  earliest  beams  of  coming 

day, 

His  features  radiant  with  the  welcome  glow ; 
And  they  who  look  upon,  and  love  him,  know 
They  see  great  Victor's  resplendent  ray. 


H          :. 
<£          T3 

S  -! 


Ill 


THE     MOUNTAINS     SPEAK    TO     ME  127 


THE    MOUNTAINS    SPEAK    TO    ME. 

The  mountains  speak  to  me ;  at  dawn  of  day 
When  tinted  by  the  morning's  rosy  fire, 
They  seem  to  say,  "Dear  child,  come  higher, 
higher ! 

Above  the  toil-worn,  dusty,  weary  way, 

Uplift  thine  eyes,  thy  thoughts,  and  catch  a  ray, 
To  waken  thee, — to  bid  thy  soul  aspire; 
Press  on,  and  win  each  lofty,  pure  desire, — 

Arise,  and  with  the  morning  sing  thy  lay." 

All  through  the  day  the  mountains  speak  to 

me; 
Blue-based,  white-peaked,    against    the    azure 

sky 
They  stand  in  calm,  majestic  purity, 

Their  beauty  touched  by  lights  that  gleam 

and  die; 

My  longing  soul,    adoring,  awed,  must  cry, 
"From  Thy   grand    mountains    to  Thyself, 

more  nigh." 


128  PEN     PICTURES     OF      THE     PLAINS 


TWILIGHT. 

The  day  is  fading.     On  a  cloudless  sky 
The  sun  reflects  a  mellow,  golden  light, 
That  dims  not  Venus'  beauty  silvery  bright. 
First  of  the  starry  train,  she  hovers  nigh, 
To  bid  the  dear,  departing  day,  "Good  by." 
As  if  to  guard  her  exit  from  the  land, 
Sharply  outlined,  the  purple  mountains  stand, 
And  rear  with  grace  and  strength,  their  heads 
on  high. 

Night's  gathering  shadows,  trooping  from 
afar, 

Advance,  and  mark  each  movement  with  a  star ; 

Till,  like  the  magic  of  a  lovely  dream, 

She,  with  her  myriad  star-gems,  reigns  su 
preme  ; 

So  Twilight,  does  thy  wondrous,  peaceful 
hour, 

Proclaim  anew,  God's  miracle  of  power. 


INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 


LD  21-95m-7,'37 


Howard fVrs 
(Howard) 


Sarah  ^liz. 


H852 
H? — 


\PR   30  193  J 


915424 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


